


Bird's Bone

by thesardine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesardine/pseuds/thesardine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You want to know who's been terrorizing our dear Sherlock. Such nasty business. It wasn't me." He looked at Mycroft with wide, innocent eyes. "But if it wasn't old Jim, then who was it?"</i>
</p><p>When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident.  Locked in a flat in East London, they begin to play a little game... </p><p>Sherlock and John, desperate to come to terms with what was done to them, begin to unravel the mystery from the other end, but in the struggle to regain some semblance of their lives, what they discover could be devastating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Ptasia Kość- TŁUMACZENIE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497885) by [Toootie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toootie/pseuds/Toootie)



> Warning: Contains Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Mild Incestuous Themes.
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is welcome and encouraged.

It was getting dark, and something in the back of Mycroft's mind alerted him that Mummy would soon notice that Sherlock was missing.  Mycroft closed his book, marking the page with one finger, and tilted an ear to the window.  It was quiet.  It had been for several hours, he realized.  When Sherlock studied, he did so in Mycroft's room, and was otherwise generally quite audible.  Mycroft set the book on his desk and slowly rose.  He left his jacket behind because it was at the other end of the house, and he didn't expect to be out long.

The Holmes lived in a somewhat sparsely populated town on the outskirts of Greater London.  There was a park five minutes walking distance from their home, and though Sherlock rarely ventured there, it was where Mycroft headed now.  It was deserted this hour, and in the waning light it was a moment before Mycroft was able to pick out Sherlock's footprint among many in the well trodden soil.  Mycroft was no adamant tracker, as Sherlock aspired to be, but it was enough to know he had been here, presumably in the company of other children, his own age or slightly older.  Those children were generally home by this hour, and it was unlikely he was still with any one of them now.

Yesterday Sherlock had looked up from his studies and queried, "Mycroft, are you odd?"

Mycroft had considered his response.  "'Odd' is a subjective term when applied to human behavior.  It encompasses a variety of deviations from the accepted norm, and therefore, according to the less _precise_ , I may be considered odd."   He had leveled a pointed gaze at his brother.  "Such people merely lack the analytical capacity to identify the root of our dissimilarities."  Sherlock had eyed him critically for a moment.  Then he had thoughtfully returned to his book.

Mycroft sighed deeply and spun in a slow circle, observing the surrounding grounds.  Though Sherlock was irregular in his habits, he had lately taken on an aversion to the dark, and Mycroft suspected that in this instance some mitigating force had prevented his timely return home.  There was a shadowed copse at the far end of the park, and Mycroft headed towards it.  The trees here were small, not much older than twenty years, and bound by the wrists to one of these was Sherlock, his face contorted in fury and drenched with tears.  He was no longer struggling, which meant he had been like this for some time.  He did not acknowledge Mycroft as he approached. 

Livid weals had arisen from the rope at his wrists - bits of shoelace, lengths of matted twine, Mycroft noted.  The knots were unsophisticated and had held due to chance rather than any skill on the part of whoever had tied them.  Mycroft picked one apart easily, and Sherlock jerked his arm free, hastening to loose the bind on his other wrist.  He was sobbing openly, but in that curious, silent manner of his.  Mycroft watched him struggle to collect himself.

Sherlock was a considerable scrapper for a boy of seven, and it was unlikely he had been overpowered into this situation.  There were mothers and nannies to prevent that sort of open bullying.  Therefore, he had acquiesced in the name of some game.

"They're not your friends," Mycroft told him.  Sherlock stilled, his face a glistening, tear-stained mess.  Without warning, he turned on Mycroft and attacked him ferociously, landing several blows to his legs and stomach before Mycroft was able to grab his wrists.  Sherlock resorted to violence when he couldn't verbally express what he was feeling, which was often.  Mycroft was trying to break him of this behavior, but now didn't seem the optimal time for a lesson.  Sherlock writhed in his grip and then chucked his head forward, into Mycroft's midriff.  The impact was unpleasant, but then Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's shirt, his bony shoulders wracked with silent sobs. 

 _Are you odd?_ he had asked.

Mycroft had never cared to have friends, but Sherlock was desperately social.  He was so poor at it, though, and likely never to get any better.  He was leagues ahead of the children his age.  Mycroft released Sherlock's hands and wrapped him in a loose embrace.  When he had stopped crying, Mycroft stooped down and lifted him up to his hip, as Daddy had used to do. 

Sherlock twisted and scrubbed his nose down the length of Mycroft's arm, and Mycroft started for home.  Daddy had made it look easy, but Sherlock was quite a bit heavier than one might suppose.  Mycroft could smell the dirt on his hair, a wet leaf smell, as well as his skin and a pungent vitality that was curiously distinct.  Sherlock tucked his head against Mycroft's neck, and Mycroft tilted his face towards the soft, errant curls.  Sherlock was rarely so affectionate, and never this vulnerable.  He toyed with the buttons on Mycroft's shirt, and idly traced the checked pattern.  Mycroft didn't want to set him down.  There was a clutching in his chest that was warm but rather painful, and he held tightly onto his brother, who was so solidly alive and real.

Mycroft approached a bench near the park gate, and had to stop and rest.  No sooner had he touched the seat than Sherlock squirmed and slipped away.

"Bird's bones are hollow," he explained, his mind already racing.  "But their density is greater than that of mammals', which maximizes stiffness and strength relative to weight, so they only appear to be delicate." He tilted his head back back, spinning to scan the darkened sky. He chattered on, quoting from his ornithology reference book, and Mycroft wrapped his arms across his chest, keenly aware of the deepening chill. It seemed at this moment that he was no longer Sherlock's brother, or friend, or protector.  He was merely a person whom Sherlock sometimes knew.

 

 

  
It was the worst kind of weather, in Mycroft's opinion; hot and thick.  He had taken a subdued breakfast with his mother that morning, and they were seated in the garden.  Mycroft observed the pallid figure before him, her hair white and perfectly coiffed, fingers gnarled with rheumatoid arthritis.  Mycroft's phone vibrated, and he retrieved it from his pocket.

 _Found him,_ the message read.

Mycroft frowned, then slowly rose.  "Mummy, I must be going," he said, but her mind was with the music drifting though the open window.  It wasn't her own work, but that of a predecessor, a priceless recording on antique vinyl.  Her eyes traced the comings and goings of bees in the garden, and she raised one graceful, crippled hand, and waved him off.


	2. Chapter 2

All Sherlock had to do was reach out and touch the phone.  Just pick up the phone and call Scotland Yard, that was all.  Sherlock's stomach soured and his hand shook violently.  He wasn't allowed to touch the phone.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself.  The air was rank with the scent of blood, soaked darkly into to the golf-green carpet.  Gloria lay at his feet, her head canted at an unnatural angle.  Her wide blue eyes stared blankly at the wall, towards the opaque, frosted windows.  Her soft blonde hair fanned across her face, hitched on her lipstick; a glossy pink.  Sherlock exhaled tightly, stifling the cry that welled up from the back of his throat.  Gloria hadn't really loved him.  Sherlock knew that as objective fact.  He reigned in his panic, or tried to, breathing stiff, measured breaths through his nose.  His body trembled with the effort, or the cold.  His hands and feet were freezing cold, numb almost.  Odd that it should be so cold, when it had never been before.  Sherlock dimly registered the effects of shock.

He made himself step towards the phone.  He made himself drop his pencil to the floor.  He uncurled his arms from around his waist and he reached for the phone.  Call Scotland Yard, he told himself.  She didn't love you.  Just pick up the phone.

John was here somewhere.  Sherlock's chest clenched painfully, and he willed himself to move his hand.  Call the police, find John.  Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and snatched up the receiver.  His throat clutched cruelly at his breath.  With a trembling, blood-splattered finger, he dialled Scotland Yard.

The woman who answered was brusque and professional.  Sherlock didn't recognise her voice.  He tried to swallow but his mouth had gone very dry, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a hoarse half-whisper.

"Trace this call," he instructed.  "Get me Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The woman tried to press him for information, and Sherlock's veneer of self-control began to crumble.

"Please just get Lestrade," he begged.  He was begging.  He began to cry.  "Please just get Lestrade."

The line went quiet as he waited.  Sherlock struggled to calm down.  He had to be sensible, he had to stay calm.  This was very important.  He wiped his eyes against his forearm, and when Lestrade came on the line, Sherlock brusquely overrode his questions.

"I'm in an office in Canary Wharf, tenth floor or higher.  There's a helicopter landing pad nearby.  You'll have to trace the call."

"We're tracing it now," Lestrade answered.  "Are you alright?  Are you hurt?"

He wasn't hurt.  As far as he knew, John wasn't either.  "John," he began, choked, tried again.  "Bring," he said.  Bring what?  What was he even trying to say?

"Is John with you?  Sherlock, is he there?"

Sherlock nodded.  The fading timbre had left his voice, and he was left mouthing nothing into the phone.

"Sherlock, we have you.  We'll be there in a couple of minutes, all right?  Stay on the phone with Marjorie until we get there."  Lestrade didn't wait for an answer, and the line was returned to the woman Sherlock didn't know.  He dropped the receiver onto the desk.  Though his knees went to water, Sherlock stepped over Gloria's thin, pretty ankles, skirting the two bloodless bodies of the men Sherlock had hated.  He paused at the door that was never locked, then stepped out into the dove-grey hall, with its fluorescent lights buzzing and blinking one hundred times per second.  Sherlock padded over the carpet and tried the room next door.  He had to find John.

  
*

  
John and Sherlock were running pell-mell through the city, the night air burning in their lungs.  John had fallen behind, as he always did.  He couldn't run as fast, as long as Sherlock, who reveled in the furious exertion.  Sherlock loved to run, he loved to chase.  Their prey tonight was a drug mule with a probable lead on a series of professional hits throughout the city.  They threaded through the darkened alleys, and suddenly Sherlock was broadsided by an enormous form that knocked the air from his lungs as it took him down.  It was a man, and he held Sherlock down while someone else administered the sedative.

When Sherlock awoke, it was very quiet, very warm, and very dark.  He could hear the blood rushing through his veins, along with the distant singing sound that accompanied external silence.  There was a gag in his mouth, and when Sherlock tried to remove it, he found that his arms were bound in sleeves around his waist.  He could feel the blindfold matted against his damp skin, and when he stretched out his legs he found he had not more than five feet in one direction, three in the other.  The ceiling was very low, not high enough to sit, so Sherlock laid on his side and wondered what had become of John.  He ran through the list of people who would do specifically this to him, and came up very short.  He recited the periodic table, beginning with Hydrogen, atomic number: 1.  Atomic weight: 1.0079.  Density at 293 degrees kelvin: .0000899 g/cm3.  When he had finished with this, he ran through his knowledge of cigarette brands, and the chemicals contained in each.  When he had finished with this, he curled up at one end of his enclosure, his back to one side, his feet to another, and his shoulders pressed against the third.  With a sick fear worming through his stomach, he steadily beat his head against the wall.

  
*

  
Sherlock tried one door after another.  Some of them were locked.  Some of the rooms were empty.  He was in an extensive building, and the hallway was long, with doors on either side.  John had been alive not five minutes ago, and if he were still alive, he would come to the door when he heard Sherlock.  If he were still alive.  Sherlock ignored that question.  If he were still alive.  Sherlock numbly tried door after door.

  
*

  
He couldn't help but turn towards that hand, chasing the contact, sensation.  The gag was removed.  Water was offered from a straw, and warm, gentle fingers caressed his cheek as he drank greedily.  He didn't know how long he had been locked away.  The hands stroked his hair, and Sherlock latched desperately onto the sensation, the soft tingle of each strand against the root.  The hands guided him forward, led him slowly to stand.  The effort made him dizzy, but the hands steadied him.  His entire world was narrowed down to the press of the hands at the small of his back, and the slow, aching warmth that pooled in his groin.  He could think of nothing else.  The hands urged him to step forward, and he obeyed.

Sherlock felt the floor change from carpet to something smooth and flat.  Not tile, his mind wanted to say.  Linoleum.  It didn't matter.  The hands went to his waist, unfastened and shucked his soiled trousers.  Sherlock felt his erection bob uncertainly in the air, and some hushed corner of his mind remembered to feel humiliated.  All he really felt was a gratitude bordering on worship for whoever this was who had freed him from that hateful, numbing void.  The hands unbuckled the straight jacket and slowly stripped him.  With his hands free, Sherlock reached for the blindfold, but the hands seized his wrists firmly.  Bad, the hands said.  He wasn't to do that.

Sherlock's stomach knotted with apprehension.  His mind gained a foothold, taking in the humidity of the air, the cool flow of air from an open door.  He was suddenly aware that the hands belonged to a woman; small, warm, and soft, without callus.  She released his wrists and rested one hand on his shoulder, guiding him around.  Sherlock wondered frantically if John were alright, and his shin connected with a low, plastic ledge.  He was urged to step over it, into a pool of warm water, almost too hot: it prickled and stung the skin around his toes and the arches of his feet.  Sherlock's breaths quickened into rapid gasps, punctuated with broken, breathy whimpers.  He was so afraid.  The hands told him to sit, and he did. 

The hands left him for a moment, and when they returned, Sherlock flinched away and pressed himself against a cool, tiled wall.  The hands were firm, and scrubbed him thoroughly with some porous material.  They lifted the warm water over his shoulders, stroking the length of his back and Sherlock trembled, his erection now achingly hard.  The hands stood him up, scrubbed perfunctorily about his buttocks and genitals.  Sherlock clutched his elbows and choked back a groan, and the hands efficiently scrubbed the length of each leg, the loose plastic fibres grating the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and the backs of his knees.  The hands pulled him back down and rinsed him thoroughly clean.

He was dressed again in soft loose slacks and a tee shirt.  The hands momentarily abandoned him, and Sherlock desperately, wildly felt their loss.  The hands that returned were not the same, were thick and not gentle.  They fitted him with the straight jacket and Sherlock twisted away and struggled childishly.  The gag was fitted into his mouth, the leather acrid on his tongue.  He stilled when he felt the soft hands on his face, petting his hair, rubbing his back reassuringly.  This time, when he was shut away in the hot, close, silent dark, Sherlock began to cry.

  
*

  
The end of the corridor opened into a large room that was teeming with people, telephones, movement and noise.  Sherlock cringed and backed away.  A young woman carrying a stack of file folders stopped and gaped at him.  It was obvious she didn't know who he was.

"Sir, are you alright?" she finally asked.

Though John certainly wasn't among these people, he wasn't in any of the rooms behind Sherlock, either.  Sherlock edged along the wall, cautiously making for the other side of the office and ignoring the stares, the inquiries, the interruptions.  Keep moving, he told himself, and inched along the wall.  Just keep moving.

  
*

  
The next time she came for him, Sherlock lay as still as a stone.  His thoughts had long subsided beneath the muffled thrum of his pulse.  The hands traced the rim of his ear, trailed along his cheek, his eyebrow.  There was a tense, fluttery feeling in his stomach and groin, and he held himself very still lest the hands abandon him again.  If some part of his brain warned him that this was dangerous, he didn't hear it over the warm, smooth hand on his hair that told him gently, firmly, that he would be cared for.  The hands told him to stand, and he obeyed.

The gag was removed and he was led to a chair.  He shifted his arms in his sleeves.  Please take this off, the movement said, but the hands settled him into the chair and left him bound.  He was offered water, which he accepted, and then a warm, wet cloth was applied to his face.  The steam invaded his parched nasal cavities, soothed his throat.  He recognised the odour of shaving cream, which was cool and caught on the sandpapery stubble that had grown in on his face.  The hands tilted his head back and pressed the razor to his throat, and the hollow just beneath the jaw.  Sherlock's breath hitched.  He was hard again, and he could feel his pulse beat against the blade.  With a steady stroke, the razor scraped upwards to the line of his jaw.  Sherlock's legs parted, and he slid lower in his seat.  Each stroke of the blade sent a spinning warmth to his groin until he writhed in his chair, fingers plucking uselessly at the insides of his sleeves.  He had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted those warm, firm hands to envelope his cock, to stroke him.  He would do anything.

The warm cloth was placed over his face again, and Sherlock was left alone.  He shifted uncomfortably, stifling a whine.  He pulled against his restraining sleeves, but didn't move from where he had been told to sit.  The cloth slipped from his face and dropped into his lap, and Sherlock pressed his hips up into it.  He was so hard it was physically painful, but he was left to sit until the cloth cooled and his arousal had settled into a dull ache.

The blindfold and earplugs were removed that day.  Sherlock flinched from the harshness of the light, although objectively he knew that it was very dim.  The overhead lights were off, so the only light in the room filtered in from the broad, frosted windows.  The woman before him was thinly built but not frail, well manicured in a high-end business sort of way.  She had deep blue eyes and a delicate mouth which smiled upon him kindly.  She leaned in very close, and Sherlock could smell the warm, salty sweetness of her skin.  She unfastened the straight jacket, carefully removed it, and set it aside.

"I want you to eat your breakfast," she told him, and spun the chair to face the desk.  The was a plate of assorted fruit there, and Sherlock eyed it dumbly.

"Go on," the woman said.  She plucked a grape off the plate and held it out to him.  Sherlock took it.  He held it to his lips a long while before delicately taking it between his teeth. 

"Good," the woman said, and waited until he had swallowed before handing him a piece of melon.  There was still a part of him that registered how sorry this all was, how pathetic he was being, but that part was still trapped in the farthest recess of his mind.  The woman handed Sherlock a blueberry, and for the first time in a very long time he felt loved.

After breakfast, the woman handed the empty plate to a large man Sherlock hadn't even noticed was there.  There were two of them, one had a gambling problem, but that didn't matter.  Sherlock looked back to the woman, who was dialling a number on the black, office-style telephone on the desk.  The ring sounded over the speaker, and it was John's voice that answered anxiously.

Sherlock's chest seized.  He reached for the receiver automatically, but the woman caught his wrist and shook her head sternly.  Bad.  Sherlock looked at her with a mixture of bewilderment and fear.  He had to talk to John.

"Hello?" John repeated.  Sherlock's attention ratcheted back to the phone.

"John," he said hoarsely.  John expelled an enormous breath that rustled over the line. 

"Oh thank God," he said.  "Where are you?"

Sherlock glanced around the room.  It was empty aside from the desk, the phone.  There seemed to be a washroom at the far side.  He couldn't see out the windows.  "I don't know," was all he could answer.

"Shit.  Okay.  Are you alright?  Are you hurt?"

Sherlock slowly considered this.  His brain wasn't processing information the way it used to.  It couldn't penetrate the lingering fog in his mind.

"Um," he said.

"Sherlock, are you hurt?"  John's voice was tense and loud.

"No."

"Okay.  Okay, that's good."

Sherlock wanted to see John.  He wanted to see him a lot, and it hurt in his wrists and his chest and the palms of his hands.  "Where are you?" he asked, and his voice was much thinner than he expected.

"I don't know.  I'm just in a room somewhere.  Locked, obviously.  I've been in here about three days.  You're the first I've heard from anybody."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine.  Could do with a steak, though," he laughed and trailed off.  "A sandwich or something."

Sherlock began to go cold.  "You haven't eaten."

"Nope.  There's six palettes of water here.  I've already been through one - "

The call was disconnected.  The woman pushed the phone aside and spread open a thin manila folder.  The sheets inside contained a vast series of numbers.

"You understand the situation, don't you?" she asked gently.  Sherlock was afraid to nod.  He was afraid to breath.  "You have the length of John Watson's life to crack this code."

  
*

  
Sherlock stumbled and braced himself against the wall.  The office personnel had gathered to stare at him.  When someone had moved to help, Sherlock had recoiled so violently that they now gave him a berth of several metres.  The manager was still on the phone with the police.

It was obvious that John wasn't among these people, but still Sherlock checked every side office.  John had been alive not five minutes ago, and it was therefore to be assumed he was still alive now.  That logic was so relentlessly faulty.  Sherlock reached the end of the office and stepped out into another corridor lined with doors.  The office workers followed some distance behind, whispering.  He was such a freak.  He wanted Gloria to pet his hair and tell him he was good, that he could still save John if he tried harder.

Sherlock curled in towards the wall, away from the people behind him.  His vision swam and blurred and he looked down at his pale, narrow feet, bare on the dark grey carpet.  He had no shoes.  Sherlock crossed his arms around his torso and slowly folded around his knees.  Tucked against the wall, he began to silently, desperately sob.

  
*

  
He was making little progress on the code.  Each line contained a different cipher, and Sherlock sat, day after day, amidst the endless whirring and blurring of numbers. 

He spoke with John each morning after breakfast.  Sherlock lay with his cheek flat on the desk, his nose as close to the speaker as Gloria would allow.  John talked about his family, his friends growing up, sometimes the cases they had taken together.  "It's alright," he always said.  "It's going to be fine," but Sherlock could hear the increasing desperation in his voice.

Sherlock cried more easily now, and when Gloria ended the calls she would pull Sherlock towards her and stroke his hair while he cried, and say, "You're almost there.  You still have time."  She would cup his face in her hand and say, "You can do this."  Sherlock would nod and set to work.

At the same time every evening, one of Gloria's men would pull back Sherlock's chair and clap a heavy hand on his shoulder.  Sherlock's stomach would drop, sweat would break out across his lip.  If Gloria had left, she would return at this time, lest he struggle too fiercely.  The straight jacket went on first, and Sherlock always resisted this, a cold dread coursing through him.  One man held him firmly while the other forced his arms into the sleeves and tightened the straps.  Sherlock would clutch into a shivering knot of tension while the blindfold was secured, the earplugs inserted.  He was left with nothing but his own screaming pulse as the gag was forced between his teeth, and he was guided to the closet where he was kept every night.  He would be stowed beneath a low shelf, wracked with convulsive tremors, and then Gloria's hand would settle on his neck.  She would rub her thumb along his jaw, telling him to be still.  Sherlock would quiet, and the fearfulness lodged in his throat would subside.  Gloria would take care of him.  She would come for him in the morning.

  
*

  
"It had blown in all these little fish, about as big as your thumbnail, perhaps, and Harry and I went up and down the beach collecting them in a bucket.  We must have had about fifty, I think they were sort of triangle shaped.  They were this iridescent green and...and magenta, or something.  I never saw them again.  We went there every year."

John's voice was getting dry and dim, like radio static through an open window.  He was rationing the last of his water.

"Are you still there?" he asked.

"Yes."

He wasn't going to be able to save John.  The numbers were just numbers to him, he couldn't crack the code.  Outside, the helicopter flew by, as it sometimes did.  Sherlock knew he was in Canary Wharf, and the news helicopters were every so often deployed there.  That information was useless, like most.  He lay there and listened to John tell his story, knowing that one day the phone would ring and just keep ringing, and he would have failed and John would be dead.  He listened to John's voice and the drone of the helicopter and its feathery, magnetic reproduction coming through over the telephone line.  Sherlock lay very still.

"It's going to be alright," John lied.  The helicopter mingled with his voice, soft and distant, like radio static.  "I love you, Sherlock, okay?"

When Gloria disconnected the call, Sherlock lunged from his seat and caught her chin in his hand.  With a brutal push, he snapped her spinal column and let her drop bonelessly to the ground.  He snatched up the pencil he had used on the code.  One of the men grabbed at him, but Sherlock parried at the wrist and plunged the pencil deep into his jugular.  He pulled it out quickly, and the splatter of blood soaked hotly into his shirt.  The man clutched his neck and dropped to his knees.  The second man had drawn a taser from his belt, but Sherlock barrelled into him with a shoulder to his midriff, and they both went down.  Sherlock severed the jugular with a stab of the pencil and the man beneath him struggled futilely as his blood steadily pooled beneath him.  Then he was still.

Sherlock stood up, wiping his face on his arm.  The scent of blood was thick and raw, and Gloria lay, her head cocked oddly, the surprise still frozen in those deep blue eyes.  Sherlock's hand clenched around the blood-slick pencil.  His hands and feet were cold, and he shivered, and once he shivered, he couldn't stop.  His breath tightened into a panicked keen.  John was here somewhere, he told himself.  The helicopter faded to a distant hum.  All Sherlock had to do now was pick up the phone.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone was shaking him.  He tensed and shrank away.  "Sherlock.  Sherlock," the person was saying.  It was Lestrade.  Sherlock clawed his way to the surface of his mind and turned his head minutely.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said.  "Sherlock, look at me."  The hallway was a fury of motion behind him.  Employees were being corralled back into the main office while uniformed officers secured the area.  Lestrade's radio crackled and blipped, tinny voices relaying messages in coded jargon.  It was a hypnotic tempest of information, and Sherlock witnessed it but observed nothing.  "Sherlock," Lestrade said.  "Come on, look at me."  With a monumental effort, Sherlock did.  Lestrade had Sherlock's wrist in his hand, was looking him over for external injury, Sherlock dimly noted.  Useless, none of the blood was his.  Lestrade looked him in the eye.  He looked haggard and worn.

"Is there anyone else here, Sherlock," he asked.  "Is John here with you?"

Sherlock's gaze slid into the middle distance.  A shrinking feeling crept into his fingertips, crawled coldly up his arms.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade muttered.  "Get him out of here, get him to the ambulance."

He had made a mistake.  He didn't know where John was.  If he had been able to break the code this wouldn't have happened.  _Wrong,_ that neglected part of his brain informed him, but wouldn't tell him why.  Sherlock was lifted into a wheelchair and a blanket was tucked around his shoulders. 

He had been impetuous - that was always his failing.  Gloria would have taken care of him, she had believed he would succeed. 

 _Wrong!_

 __If he were more clever he could have cracked the code and saved John, and instead he had acted on impetuous guesswork -

 _Wrong!_

 __Sherlock pulled the blanket closed around him and sank again, into himself, where the office, the police, all the sounds and the movement clouded into meaningless white noise.  He felt the rolling motion of the wheels beneath him, the stiffness of his skin where the blood had dried.  People drifted by in waves of scent and colour, and then the bright steel doors yawned before him, and Sherlock saw they were going to put him in a box.

Chaos erupted. Sherlock landed hard on one elbow with the wheelchair tipped over him.  People were yelling and grabbing his arms and hurting him, and John was dead.  Sherlock had failed, and now they were going to put him in a box.  As this terror ripped through him, Sherlock did something he hadn't done since he was very small, since he had tracked mud through his bedroom and then thought it was his father, clawed up through the earth and come to sleep in Sherlock's bed.  He began to scream, and when he did, he screamed for Mycroft.

  
*

  
Meredith was standing outside the building when Mycroft arrived.  Several others in Mycroft's employ were there as well, awaiting further instruction.

"He's on the tenth floor," Meredith told him.  "You're cleared to examine the crime scene, and John Watson remains unaccounted for."

"Dr. Watson is confined in a single room in an unoccupied wing upwards of the fortieth story.  Find him and alert me immediately."  Mycroft strode into the building, leaving Meredith to verify his identity with the police.  An elevator was being held for him on the ground floor.

Sherlock had specifically mentioned the helicopter landing pad because the knowledge of it's location had been the impetus for whatever had transpired this morning.  It meant that Dr. Watson had been used as leverage (predictable) that his location had been unknown until today, and that his relative safety had been verbally verified no later than 8:37 that morning when the news helicopter had been deployed to cover the effects of a collision on the morning traffic.  Dr. Watson had been near enough that the noise from the rotor had interfered with his communication with Sherlock, now known to have been detained on the tenth story, close enough to the ground not to have confused the sound with its corresponding transmission.  The elevator pinged and its doors slid open.

A large group of people were being detained in the central office.  Mycroft was aware that Sherlock's presence had been reported among them, along with a worrying account of hysterical behaviours.  Detective Inspector Lestrade was barking into his radio, some little distance up the hall, and when he caught sight of Mycroft, relief flashed visibly across his face.  He heaved a brisk but enormous breath and momentarily holstered the radio.

"He's been calling for you," he said.  Mycroft felt the beginnings of dread brush clammily along his skin.  Lestrade's radio hissed again and he stepped aside.  "Alright, well send them up, obviously!"  He jerked open the door to a private office and gestured for Mycroft to enter, then was accosted by a uniformed officer on civilian detail.  Mycroft could hear their voices rising as he shut the door behind him.

The office was sparsely decorated with framed photographs, a mid-ranking employee of the mortgaging company that rented this floor.  When Mycroft had closed the door he found his brother huddled behind it, a garish shock blanket pulled tightly around him and fisted over his eyes.  Mycroft's breath caught painfully.  He swallowed through the dryness in his throat, and then said softly, "Sherlock."

Sherlock drew very still.  Then with a light rocking motion he leaned away from the wall, tilted until his head rested against Mycroft's knee.  Mycroft lowered himself to the floor and gingerly began to look him over.  Sherlock allowed him to peel away the blanket, and Mycroft observed the splatter patterns from two arterial punctures across his arm and the front of his shirt.  Sherlock had friction burns on the backs of his wrists and on the protruding bones of his elbows.  They were beginning to fester, and had been treated with a clear, glistening ointment.  The skin at the corners of his mouth was red and flaking.

A churning sensation took up in the pit of Mycroft's stomach, which he ignored.  Something was distinctly amiss.  His phone vibrated again and Mycroft checked the message.

 _Target sighted at Bow and Long Acre._

 __Mycroft pocketed the phone and ran a hand over Sherlock's hair.  It was still thick, but coarser than it had been in childhood.  He had shaved recently, Mycroft noted.  In fact, he looked quite well trimmed, and was very nearly making weight.  Physically, he appeared healthier than Mycroft had seen him since childhood.

Mycroft considered the scenario, adapted to include all current information.  He had of course manoeuvered against James Moriarty the instant Dr. Watson had been confirmed missing.  Sherlock, being of the erratic habits he had entertained in youth, often disappeared unexpectedly for days on end, though this behaviour had been curbed somewhat in the last eighteen months.  This change could be attributed, no doubt, to the good Doctor himself. 

Mycroft had pulled every string available to him, as well as indebted himself dangerously to several people in order to weave the web that was currently closing in around Moriarty.  Obviously none of today's three corpses belonged to him.

Sherlock was high-strung and deceptively sensitive, and had always responded poorly to corporal punishment.  Whoever had set about breaking him had done so in the quickest and most thoroughly effective manner, displaying intimate knowledge of his psychological vulnerabilities.  However, Moriarty had not been present at the scene today, nor could he in these last two weeks have invested the time it would take to reduce Sherlock to his current state.  There were of course gaps in Mycroft's surveillance, but none of that magnitude.  It was also highly unlikely that he would overlook a 100 decibel helicopter routinely deployed from the direct vicinity of his second captive on the upper stories. 

Mycroft needed more data.  If Sherlock had been let to escape with such moderate resistance, it was unlikely Dr. Watson had been under direct surveillance, so he was probably still alive.  Mycroft did not yet want to consider what would need to be done for Sherlock if that were not the case.  He fixed the blanket back over his brother and encouraged him to stand.  He wouldn't be able to investigate the crime scene until Dr. Watson was accounted for.  If he were in adequate condition, Mycroft would hand Sherlock over to him.  If not, or if he were deceased, Sherlock would have to be sedated while Mycroft cleaned up by far the worst mess he had gotten himself into yet.  Sherlock tucked himself under Mycroft's arm and allowed himself to be led out of the office, through the chaotic throngs of people outside, and into the lift.  The steel doors glided closed and blissfully erased the rest of the world.  Sherlock dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder, buried his face against the lapel.  Mycroft surrendered briefly to a surge of relief and fondness, and turned his nose to his brother's hair.  He was going to fix this.  That was his role in Sherlock's life.

The lift eased to a stop, and Mycroft guided Sherlock out of the building.  It would be easier to wait in the car, and the hot morning was waxing towards a sweltering midday.  Sherlock made a small noise and balked when his bare feet hit the burning pavement.  An emergency medic, spotting the red blanket, hurried towards them, which nearly sent Sherlock careening into hysterics.  Mycroft held onto him firmly, and a curt dismissal sent the medic backing away.  His phone vibrated.  Expecting Meredith with news of Dr. Watson, Mycroft swung Sherlock somewhat roughly into the shade of the ambulance, and checked the message.

 _Target now entering perimeter._

 __Mycroft gritted his teeth and pressed delete.  Sherlock was beginning to hyperventilate, and Mycroft forced him to sit on the back of the ambulance, where he pulled his feet up onto the edge and drew thin, quick, rabbit-like breaths.  He would probably need to be sedated regardless of circumstance.  Again, Mycroft's phone vibrated and he answered it, keeping one hand planted on the back of Sherlock's neck.  It was beastly hot, and Mycroft was beginning to lose his temper.

"Dr. Watson is confirmed, room 4606," Meredith said.  "He's a bit worse for wear, but unharmed."

Mycroft's grip went a bit tight and Sherlock cringed.  He loosened his hold and smoothed his brother's hair in vague apology.

"Send him down immediately.  We'll wait at the ambulance."

Mycroft ended the call and checked on Sherlock, who had hidden his face in the blanket again.  A sick, cold fury which he had heretofore ignored began to harden in his chest.  He needed to see the crime scene.  Mycroft kept his sharp eyes on the door, waiting for Dr. Watson to emerge. 

When he finally pushed through the door, Mycroft experienced a brief but intense surge of relief.  It was clear that Dr. Watson had received no similar treatment to Sherlock, and  Mycroft wouldn't need to see his room to know it contained little but desiccated human waste and recycled water bottles filled with urine.  He was utterly emaciated beneath his darkly stained clothes and matted beard.  The limp he had brought home from Afghanistan was so pronounced as to appear debilitating.  When he spotted Sherlock, his pace quickened to a lopsided gait in which half of his body refused to cooperate.  His face contorted with the visceral dissipation of two weeks' relentless anxiety and fear.

"Thank God," he gasped, and clutched Sherlock in a desperate embrace.  "Oh, thank God."  He climbed onto the edge of the ambulance, pulling his game leg up behind him.  He drew Sherlock nearly into his lap and pressed his cheek to the back of his head.  He was crying, Mycroft saw.  Sherlock's hand snaked from beneath the blanket and latched white-knuckled into the leg of John's trousers.  John rocked them back and forth and that was how Mycroft left them, under the distant supervision of his assistant, curled together against some horror only they would ever know.

  
*

  
Mycroft was permitted into the crime scene with minimal fuss.  He donned the blue scrubs and fitted the gloves on snugly.  The room in which Sherlock had been kept was down the hall, and when Mycroft entered the forensics team stood aside, though not without some chagrin.  He didn't know what Meredith had told them, or what forms she'd had forged, but it was sufficient to keep them out of his way for the time he needed.

The lay of the bodies suggested the woman had been killed first, and the comparative lack of physical trauma showed she had been the recipient of some emotional attachment.  As expected, there was no video surveillance, which could indicate a small operation wary of potentially damning evidence.  Mycroft eyed the straight jacket laid out in the closet, the blindfold and gag.  The events more or less slotted into place, but the motive was unclear.  Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock was far too personal for him to have delegated the intimate task of breaking him in this manner.  It was clear that whoever _had_ orchestrated this wished to make Sherlock amenable to instruction while preserving his intellect.

Mycroft examined the papers spread out on the desk: an extensive series of numbers, and this also was curious.  Of course Sherlock was quite good with numbers, but he had no particular talent with them, not like Mycroft.  Someone with a merely peripheral knowledge of Sherlock's abilities might set him to breaking codes, but Mycroft doubted that was the true objective.  Given all other factors of the abduction, it was likely the numbers were a blind, a sidetrack to keep Sherlock from too closely analyzing what was being done to him, to perpetuate the illusion that he was responsible for the final outcome of his situation and his inevitable failure.

Mycroft had seen enough.  It was fortunate that Sherlock had preserved the presence of mind to extricate himself from the situation when the opportunity arose.  However, the repercussions from the event and its violent conclusion would have lasting effects.  Mycroft looked down at the dead woman's body, imagined how Sherlock would have had to lunge from the chair to snap her neck at that angle.  It would have been impulsive, before two weeks of conditioned obedience could override the logical conclusion he had reached while on the phone.  Mycroft knelt and delicately drew the stiffening hand to his face, sniffing the tips of her fingers.  Shaving cream, of course.  He replaced her hand precisely as he had found it, canted towards the grotesque curve of her fractured spine.  He rose and left the room.

  
*

  
He found Sherlock and Dr. Watson much as he had left left them.  Sherlock was bent over the doctor's wrist, his pale, unsteady fingers pressed to the pulse.  Dr. Watson silently counted off the seconds, and intermittently he would ask, "How many?" and Sherlock would respond inaudibly.  Watching them for a moment, their heads ducked together, Mycroft felt a sour twist of jealousy.  He made a note to examine it later, but now simply wasn't the time.  The security team would be set up in 221C by now.  Dr. Watson had probably better be hospitalized, but Mycroft already knew he would refuse and he had no wish to press the issue.  Sherlock needed the familiarity of his flat right now, and though it would be better if Mycroft could remain with him for some time, it just wasn't feasible, not today of all days.  The inconvenience of the timing was extraordinary, but Mycroft could hardly begrudge his brother's safety when he had been working relentlessly to secure that very thing.  He would have to send them along with Meredith, though, as he expected to be called away at any moment.  He interrupted Dr. Watson's count, and surreptitiously assessed his mental condition while he spoke.

"I assume a hospital visit would be unwelcome to you at this time, so I've arranged a private doctor to attend to you both at 221B, if you prefer.  I'm afraid I can accompany you no further today, but I most assuredly will be checking in later, this afternoon, or the evening at latest."

Dr. Watson eyed him dully, taking considerable time to process what he had heard.  Fatigue, no doubt, and malnutrition.  Mycroft continued.

"I've taken the liberty of installing a security team in the C flat.  Temporarily, of course," he added, as Dr. Watson's gaze hardened with suspicion.  "It's reasonable to assume that whoever is behind your abduction will make a second attempt, and while I would prefer to relocate you altogether, I fear my brother's condition will not allow it.  This team will remain unobtrusive unless you should need them, and you will find your flat has been equipped with all supplies necessary for your full physical recovery.  I would prefer you to remain indoors until I have rectified this situation, but of course I leave that to your own discretion.  However, should you choose to leave the flat, you will be followed, and I will not compromise in that regard."

Sherlock had left off his counting and had seized Dr. Watson's wrist in a grip that must have caused considerable discomfort, given the man's condition, but he took no notice of it.

"How long?" he asked.

Mycroft's lips thinned to a grim line.  "I'm afraid it's impossible to tell.  Do rest assured, I'm doing everything in my power."

Dr. Watson's demeanour softened.  He sagged and looked away.  "Of course you are, I'm sorry."  He looked back at Mycroft with the candid, careworn look Mycroft was accustomed to see in those eyes.  They were rimmed darkly with exhaustion, but nevertheless belonged to John Watson alone.  "Thank you.  For everything," he said, and meant it.  It was so rare an occurrence in Mycroft's life that he wasn't sure how to respond, and he tilted his head in a prim, habitual nod.

"My assistant will see you home."

Dr. Watson coaxed Sherlock away from the ambulance, towards the black car that was waiting.  Meredith held the door for them, and  then joined the driver in the front.  Mycroft's phone vibrated, but he didn't check it just then.  He already knew what it said.  The black car drove off and a second pulled into its place.  Mycroft settled himself into this one, and only then did he check the message.

 _Target secured.  Approaching final destination.  ETA 10:00._

 __Precisely on schedule.  Mycroft pocketed his phone once more.  He was increasingly uncertain of the role James Moriarty had played in all of this, but he fancied he would have his answers soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

James Moriarty was being kept in a small, secure flat in East London, which Mycroft had had arranged specifically for this purpose. When Mycroft entered, Moriarty was seated in an armchair at the far end of the coffee table, his ankle propped on one knee.

"My my my, " he said, and his dark eyes glittered coldly.

"James," Mycroft replied. He rested his umbrella against the opposite chair. Moriarty's shoes had been removed, of course, along with his personal affects. He had draped his jacket over the back of his chair and appeared to have settled himself in comfortably. Mycroft lowered himself into his own chair. Moriarty's lips slowly stretched into a vicious parody of a smile, revealing a sliver of small even teeth which Mycroft knew to be the work of Dr. Treudeaux, a dentist in Chelsea.

Two weeks ago, when Sherlock had vanished, Mycroft immediately began the arduous task of tracking down James Moriarty. His involvement had been a foregone conclusion, for of all the people Sherlock had infuriated over the years, none would have had the means or even the motive to abduct him, and none were aware of the personal significance he placed on John Watson. Moriarty, of course, being the exception in both cases.

Scanning Sherlock's files, Mycroft had come across a sheaf of meticulous ink sketches; incisors, bicuspids, the faulty alignment of a lower jaw; all neatly labelled in Sherlock’s firm, even hand. Mycroft was unsure of the instance in which Sherlock could have obtained such an intimate view of Moriarty's third molar, though it would not have taken much: a brief glimpse at the pool perhaps. Sherlock differed from Mycroft in his ability to recall, describe, or reproduce in perfect detail the things he had seen, a tedious task which Mycroft eschewed in favour of generalities and intuitive impressions.

Sherlock had narrowed down the list of dental surgeons capable of performing the exact work that he had seen, but at the time of his abduction nothing had come of it. A week later, however, Mycroft's surveillance had picked up Moriarty entering the office of Dr. Treudeaux. In this particular game of cat and mouse, he had committed the fatal error of being genetically predisposed to soft teeth.

"I'll confess you surprised me, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty drawled. "This is the first time I've ever been caught. I underestimated your influence." He gestured to the flat, the beige carpet, the blue-tinted walls. "Of course, your employer doesn't know what you're doing here. I would have known otherwise." The smile vanished. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"Let us not shilly-shally around the point, James. I promise it will be considerably easier for you if you simply tell me what I want to know."

"Easier for me," Moriarty considered. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and settled lower in his chair. He pursed his lips in mock contemplation. "You want to know who's been terrorizing our dear Sherlock. Such nasty business. It wasn't me." He looked at Mycroft with wide, innocent eyes. "But you already know that, or I'd be dead already, wouldn't I." The small smile returned. "But if it wasn't old Jim, then who was it?"

The theatrics were already quite tiresome. Mycroft eyed his opponent evenly.

"Four hundred micrograms of lysergide followed by, oh, I don't know, fifty milligrams of mescaline," Moriarty offered conversationally. "Is that what you were thinking?"

It was, actually. Mycroft had a discreet team of interrogators at his disposal, and Moriarty's disposition seemed to favour chemical and psychological manipulation. Moriarty continued.

"I'm just terrible on hallucinogens, Mr. Holmes. I see the most horrifying things, you can't even _imagine._ " He rolled these last words languidly. "If it were me, I'd throw in some amphetamine. Risky, it's true, there's the risk I might lose my mind, but I would beg you to make it stop. Eventually. I'm afraid I can't give you a time line. Do take it under advisement, though, will you? It seems the longer this takes, the longer I get to live. Is that true?"

"Indeed, James," Mycroft evenly replied. "The use of narcotics has certainly crossed my mind. However, my brother as of today has been recovered, so I am at my leisure to take as long as I need to obtain the required information," he ran his fingernails over the pad of his thumb, "by whatever means necessary."

"I see." Moriarty's face took on a tenser quality. "But to drag on this tiresome charade, Mr. Holmes? How boring. I think we can do better than that." He shifted, settled his tongue as though his mouth had gone dry.

"We'll need a six point restraint, because naturally, I'm going to fight you. With every inch of my being, I will fight you, Mr. Holmes. You'll need a lid speculum, one for each eye, and mount a mirror on the ceiling so I have no choice but to watch the procedure.  Use a toothed forceps to loosen the tissue surrounding my eye; either one will do. The mass of the eyeball is much softer than most people believe. Gelatinous, almost. Just jimmy the forceps gently, create a little tent of tissue, and cut it away. There are four rectus muscles which will need to be removed. Use a small hook to lift them from beneath, and cut them away as well. Naturally this may cause some bleeding, Mr. Holmes, but I won't be needing those veins anymore, so cauterize them." Moriarty paused. He was trembling, almost imperceptibly.

"Before you cut the last one, you'll want to clamp it with a hemostat; it will act as a handle to remove my eye. With a little leverage it will pop right out." He paused again and swallowed tightly. His eyes had taken on a feverish quality in his pallid face. "It will still be rooted to the optic nerve, which will be coated with a slick membrane. Press the scissors as close as you can to the root, and then... _snip!_ " he whispered. "Show it to me. Prepare to remove my other eye. I'll tell you everything you want to know." His voice had dissipated to a dry rasp.

Mycroft realised he had been grinding his molars together, and he carefully relaxed his jaw. He had no doubt that Moriarty was telling the truth and had frightened himself in doing so, yet inexplicably Mycroft felt as though he were the one losing the upper hand. Interesting. For one of the very few times in his life, Mycroft did not know where this was headed. He waited for James to continue.

"Once you do this, it's only a matter of time before Sherlock figures it out. Not right away, I don't think, but he is _so_ incorrigible, isn't he?  Now, he wouldn't care, of course. He's self centred, compassionless, he has no moral compass at all, no conscience - or wait," Moriarty's voice lilted and the harsh glint returned to his eyes. "Or does he have a little cricket who sits on his shoulder and tells him right from wrong?"

Mycroft's stomach hardened. Moriarty switched tack abruptly, and his tone was once again casual.

"Sherlock is so bright. He's so beautiful, isn't he? But I must confess, that gimpy little doctor of his has caught my eye. Do you agree? He is interesting, in his simpleminded way. Sometimes I wonder how things could have been if I had met him first. Do you think he would be my little lap dog? I can be very masterful."

Mycroft remained carefully calm. At this particular point in time Dr. Watson was essential to Sherlock's recovery.

"But. He's Sherlock's. He's shoot me straight between the eyes given the opportunity. And what a shot! Where did he learn that, I wonder. Peculiar man, John Watson." Moriarty sank into something of a reverie, and he snapped out of it abruptly. He met Mycroft's narrow gaze fiercely, tauntingly, with the thinnest veneer of nonchalance. "What do you think he would do if he knew what you had done? After I told you everything. I feel certain John would disagree most strenuously. He might even walk out, like he does. Could Sherlock ever risk him finding out? When it comes to that, Mr. Holmes, who do you think Sherlock will chose? You, the brother who raised him?  Or his grim little doctor."

Moriarty grinned viciously and leaned back, his play complete. Mycroft had lost this round. This, despite his enormous situational advantage. He rose and straightened his jacket, then took up his umbrella. Very well played indeed.

"Then I fear we have reached an impasse," he said, rapidly plotting his new course of action.  "You will understand that I cannot allow you to go free. My team is under strict instructions not to enter this area under any circumstances, so please don't overestimate the priority placed on your physical well being. Nevertheless, all potentially injurious objects have been removed for your safety. Aside from that, I believe you will find your accommodations quite...normal."

Moriarty broke into a cold grin. "Then the game is on, Mr. Holmes."

  
*

The sound of the shower was almost startlingly loud. John turned the fixture towards the wall so that the water wouldn't pound so mercilessly against the basin. He turned to Sherlock, who had followed him into the bathroom.

"You can go first."

Sherlock wavered where he stood, gripping his elbows. He had angry red lesions on the backs of wrists. John wasn't prepared to find out how they had got there.

Sherlock was covered in blood. It was smeared up and down his right arm and stained into his shirt. In the elevator Anthea had warned John about this, that Sherlock had killed three people in his escape. She had said his emotional state was extremely delicate, but it had still turned John's stomach the way Sherlock had sidled up to him in the car, cringed and clung like an animal. John had the irrational idea that if they could simply get the blood off him, then everything else would rinse away: the last two weeks, everything. They were home. It was going to be fine.

Sherlock hadn't moved at all. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on John's shoulder. John had never seen him look so small.

"You're filthy, Sherlock. Come on."

Sherlock didn’t move. Then he turned towards the wall, hiding his face behind his raised shoulders, which had begun to tremble.

Oh God. Okay. John stifled the fear that knifed through him. It was going to be fine. He shut off the water. He took a small hand towel from the rack, then guided Sherlock to the sink. He wet the towel, pried loose Sherlock's arm, and began scrubbing away the blood in long, firm strokes. He scoured between the fingers. There was a smattering of blood on his face and neck, and John wiped that away. It was going to be fine.

When he was done, John dropped the cloth in the sink and ran hot water over it. He watched the blood pool pink and slowly clear. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to kill anyone. He knew Sherlock had had to; John would have done the same. But it was different. John was there to kill people if they had to. Sherlock shouldn't. It wasn't right. It was too close to what he could have been; what everyone already thought he was. John thought he wanted to either cry or be sick, and he said, "Might as well change out of that." Sherlock didn't leave.

John picked up the cloth and wrung it out. The water had run to burning hot, and he turned the temperature down. He looked at himself in the mirror, his gaunt, hollow face looking pale and bruised beneath a scraggling beard. He fetched the electric shaver from behind the mirror, but Sherlock didn't leave until he had trimmed it down to a thick stubble and then reached for the shaving cream.

  
When John stepped out of the shower a long time later, Sherlock was seated on the toilet, his head bowed and his hands clasped between his knees. He hadn't changed his clothes.

"You startled me," John said, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was embarrassed by the way his ribs protruded, and the frail knottiness of his joints beneath his skin. His clothes were in a pile on the floor, but he couldn't put those on. He would throw them away later. Sherlock's as well.

John began the laborious trek up to his bedroom, and heard Sherlock eventually follow. John leaned heavily against the banister and bit back a cry as his leg nearly gave out beneath him. He took the steps one at a time with his shoulder to the wall, dragging the bad leg up to meet the other. When he reached the top his breath was ragged and he felt hot tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. His skin was cold where, in his surprise, he hadn't remembered to dry.

John dressed in a dark hooded jumper and tracksuit bottoms. He was chilled even though he knew the flat was overly warm, and he pulled on socks as well, then retrieved his cane from where it had been blessedly dormant for over a year. That was okay. This was temporary. They were home. John grabbed a pillow and the blanket from his bed, because until things did get better, he couldn't endure the repeated ordeal of navigating the steps. He made to throw these things downstairs when he saw that Sherlock was still standing at the bottom, rocking forward and then turning away as though he couldn't decide whether or not to mount them. John choked around the knot that rose in his throat.

"Sherlock," he said. "Come on. You can't wear that." John breathed in quickly and shuddered on the exhale. It was not going to be alright. He closed his eyes and stood very still, except for his left hand, which spasmed so convulsively it was nearly useless. He heard Sherlock hurry up the steps and felt him brush by into his bedroom. Still, John stood with the bundle of bedding clutched to his waist, eyes shut, willing himself to breathe. This is not your fault, he told himself. It's not your fault. It's not.

He hadn't known what was happening. Day after day he had sat in that room watching the shadows move across the wall, counting how long he could survive on his dwindling water. He sat on the far side, away from the corner he had used for a loo, while such a thing had still been relevant. It was tucked beneath his jacket to contain the stench. Every morning the phone would ring, and God help him, but he had lived for those calls. His heart had hammered in his chest as he waited for that low voice to say his name. After awhile that was all Sherlock would say. He had never said what they were doing to him, but John knew these calls were part of it.

Since Sherlock wouldn't, John would just talk. He would talk and talk, and sometimes the tone would sound and he would realise the call had been disconnected long ago, and still he would just keep talking. He would tell Sherlock then how sorry he was, and how scared, and please do something, please help him, get me out of here, I'm sorry. Then gasping, John would reign himself in. He would stop crying because it wasted water. He would wait for the day to end and think of things to tell Sherlock, and things he would say only after Sherlock had gone. He would watch the square patch of muted sunlight crawl slowly over the wall, the floor, the door that was always locked. Whatever had been done to Sherlock, John was a part of it, and God help him, but he had needed those calls.

John opened his eyes. He dropped the bedding and watched it tumble down the steps. Then he turned around and checked on Sherlock because he was taking a very long time. Sherlock was standing in front of his dresser, stripped completely bare. He was gripping a folded shirt to his chest and staring into the open drawer, whispering frantically to himself. John turned away and rested his head against the door jamb. Someone had painted over the strike plate so that it no longer matched the brass door handle. John fitted his finger into the latch hole. He wasn't going to cry. He told himself this as a tear slipped down the edge of his nose and dropped warm onto his hand. This is not your fault, as another tear joined the first. This is not your fault. It's not your fault.

John hastily wiped his nose on his sleeve. Alright. He went into the room. He fetched Sherlock a set of pyjamas from out of the drawer. "Put these on. Come on," he said, and waited while Sherlock pull them on over his angular form. There was a spot of blood on the inside of his elbow that John had missed.

*

When Mycroft arrived, both Sherlock and Dr. Watson were in the living room. Sherlock was facing the wall by the door, tracing the patterned flock wallpaper with the tips of his fingers. Dr. Watson was sitting rigidly in the armchair near the kitchen. He appeared to be staring out the window, but his manner suggested he was seeing nothing. Mycroft entered the room and set his books on the table; some crosswords for Dr. Watson, comprehensive books on spiders and birds for Sherlock. Dr. Watson was looking at him now, his tense expression unchanged. Sherlock stilled but didn't turn around. Mycroft went into the kitchen and procured a glass of water. He returned with it and a small white pill in hand, and he gave the pill to Sherlock.

"Take this," he instructed. Sherlock held the pill cautiously between two fingers. "Go on."

Sherlock took it in his teeth, and Mycroft handed him the water. Once Sherlock swallowed the pill, Mycroft took back the glass.

"Good. Now go lie down."

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before heading towards the sofa. Mycroft waited until he had curled onto it with his back to the room, then he turned to Dr. Watson, who had watched the exchange with something approaching horror. Mycroft took a seat in the opposite chair and set the empty glass on the coffee table.

"Rohypnol," he explained, which assuaged Dr. Watson's anxiety not even slightly. Mycroft took up one of the crossword booklets he had brought. It would be fifteen minutes before the drug took effect, and it wouldn't do to speak until then. At the end of that time he set the booklet down to find Dr. Watson glaring at him with all the steel left to him in his weakened condition.

"What you must understand, Dr. Watson, is that my brother is not in his right mind. If he seems amenable to my suggestions it is because he trusts me to know what is best for him when he is unable to make those decisions for himself." Mycroft held Dr. Watson's gaze until the other man looked away. "Sherlock killed three people today. He did it because the situation presented no acceptable alternative, but I must warn you that, falsely constructed as it may have been, he felt a great deal of attachment to one of them. He made a decision. He weighed your life in favour of hers, and while this was necessary, it will nevertheless wreak severe repercussions upon his psyche." The blood visibly drained from Dr. Watson's face. Mycroft continued. "Rather than allow him to dwell on it any further today, I believe it essential that he rest thoroughly in an environment in which he feels secure."

A moment passed between them. When Dr. Watson finally spoke, his voice was dim and hoarse. "What do you mean, falsely constructed?"

Mycroft spoke carefully, determining what was necessary to reveal. "He underwent a conditioning process comprised of long periods of sensory deprivation, broken by intervals of physical and mental stimulation. This established a false sense of trust between him and his captor, which was reinforced through daily repetition." Mycroft paused. "I suspect he recognises the perverse nature of his attachment, but that doesn't make it any less real."

Dr. Watson looked as though he were about to be ill. "And why did they do this?" he asked.

Mycroft frowned. He had broken up his contemplations to come here this evening, but it was with mounting apprehension that he had watched the variables collapse in favour of one very grave theory which he had yet to confirm. "The motive remains unclear," he hedged, "As does the objective."

"You don't think it was Moriarty, then."

Again, Mycroft hesitated. "There is no evidence of his involvement."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't him," Dr. Watson muttered.

"No."

Dr. Watson's gaze shifted to rest somewhere between the far window and Sherlock's sleeping form. Bare of face and all but swimming in his jumper, he seemed impossibly frail. The tremor in his hand had returned with a vengeance, and he had buried it between his leg and the arm of the chair.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft began, unsure if what he was about to offer were true compassion or simply another test. "After what you've experienced, I understand if you wish to take some time, to stay with family, or -"

Dr. Watson shook his head. Of course, he was largely estranged from his family for reasons purely his own. In some ways he was even more alone in this world than Sherlock. It was somewhat sad, really. Dr. Watson managed a small facsimile of a smile, and Mycroft inclined his head politely.

"I will admit to some selfishness in wishing you to remain," Mycroft said, then selected his next words. "I'm not sure you're aware of how very dear you are to my brother. Your presence will be reassuring both to him and to me."

Dr. Watson looked at him squarely, the exhaustion in his expression bordering on despair. "I don't know what to do."

Mycroft felt a tightness in his chest that seemed to have taken up residence there. He had no solid answer. Dr. Watson dropped his head into his hands and cursed feebly. Then he wiped his nose on the back of his hand and tucked his arm around his waist. He took several steadying breaths.

"Okay," he said. "Okay." He took one more breath and looked at Mycroft again. "What about you?" he asked. "What will you do?"

"I'll try to be here at least once a day. Sorting this out may take some time."

Dr. Watson nodded. He stared for a moment at the books on the table, moved the one on spiders aside to look at the birds. He flipped the book open and began leafing through it. "Does he like all this?"

"As a hobby."

It was a beautifully printed tome, filled with coloured photographs, exacting diagrams and information. "I didn't know," Dr. Watson said.

"Well. Very little survives his enthusiasm for forensic science."

Dr. Watson breathed a semblance of a laugh. He toyed with the corner of a page, and Mycroft realised he wanted to ask something, but wasn't sure his question would be welcome.

"Birds were one of his earliest obsessions," Mycroft offered. "Then insects, and spiders. He didn't discover forensics until early adolescence." He had Dr. Watson's full attention now. Though Sherlock certainly would certainly object if he were able, Mycroft was loathe to allow the subject to drop. It had lightened Dr. Watson's demeanour remarkably already, and it was seldom Mycroft had the opportunity to speak on any subject but business; rarer still that he felt inclined to do so.

"For a time his room was filled desiccated exoskeletons. We had a large garden, but he quickly exhausted its resources. No scorpions at all, to his eternal disappointment." Mycroft regarded his brother, shoulders broad and flat beneath the t-shirt. It had been a very long time since Sherlock needed him like he had today. "But humans are his favourite, above all other creatures." He turned back to Dr. Watson. "I believe it was through his research in this area - well, I say 'research.' He liked to spy on the neighbours. He developed a fascination with human ingenuity that has prevailed above all else. As for the emphasis on criminal capacity, one can only guess."

"The thrill," Dr. Watson suggested, smiling.

"Ah, of course." 

They lapsed into easy silence, and Dr. Watson again took on that hesitant quality, his tongue poised at the edge of his teeth.

"You can ask whatever you like, doctor."

Dr. Watson glanced away. "You don't have to call me that. Um. No, I just, I wonder. It doesn't seem like he could have ever been..."

"A child?"

"Small, yeah."

Mycroft considered this. "His personality has not changed a great deal, but he is rather larger, yes."

Dr. Watson laughed. "I mean, like...what was it like?" A lilting curiosity had crept into his voice that was refreshing to hear.

"It was very trying," Mycroft said emphatically. "But it was also rewarding. He was an apt pupil, as you can imagine. Very bright, very creative, with me, at least. His teachers wanted to put him in remedial classes. He refused to learn his basic facts."

"Earth goes round the sun, all that."

'Precisely. He refused to learn anything that did not present an immediate, practical application, and he was very selective in his definition of 'practical.' But once he chose to learn something, he did so thoroughly and comprehensively. He often surprised even me with the depth of his understanding."

"So did you teach him a lot, then? I mean, if his teachers were..." Dr. Watson's expression could only be described as rapt.

"My dear Dr. Watson, I taught him everything." Mycroft waited for these words to take effect and then said, almost coyly, "Where do you think he learned the science of deduction?"

Dr. Watson's lips parted in an awed little sliver of a smile. It was easy to see why Sherlock liked him so much.

"There is a difference of seven years between us, so I had a notable advantage, but there was such a time as he considered me the authority in matters of detection."

Ruefully, Dr. Watson shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "I shouldn't be asking. He'll be furious."

"I'm not so sure," Mycroft said, allowing a hint of irony to creep into his voice. "It's possible he simply hasn't found a situation in which the information would be immediately and practically applicable. That isn't to say he wouldn't want you to know."

Still, Dr. Watson shook his head. "If he thought I thought he was...he had anything but sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus, it would probably devastate his ego."

"Hm. It may reduce it to a human level. He would manage, I think."

Dr. Watson's gaze drifted back to Sherlock, still curled on the sofa. The soles of his feet were black from the flat having been let to accumulate dust. The silence this time was sombre and heavy. Reluctantly, Mycroft rose from his chair.

"I must be getting back," he said, and crossed over to Dr. Watson. He held out his hand and the doctor clasped it firmly. How quickly that hollow look had returned to his eyes.

"Thanks for stopping by," he said. "I really, um, thanks."

"It's been a pleasure," Mycroft said sincerely.

  
On his way downstairs, Mycroft paused on the landing. Right now, Dr. Watson would be labouring to his feet. He would contemplate leaving his cane, but would need it to move even the small distance across the room. Mycroft heard the rhythmic thump as it hit the floor. Now he would be gathering the pillow and blanket that had been discarded near the sofa. He would be settling in at the opposite end, making room and lifting his bad leg to rest over Sherlock's knees. Then he would arrange the blanket over them, although it wasn't cold. He would resign himself to insomnia, but would succumb unexpectedly to sleep with Sherlock's reassuring warmth beneath him.  Mycroft heard the cane slide from the sofa and clatter to the floor.  He descended the rest of the steps and, unbidden, wondered how things could have been if  _he_ had met John first.   Outside the car was waiting for him. Mycroft would spend the rest of the evening examining data, closing in on his brother's assailant from the silent solitude of his elegant and empty home.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock needed to shower. He had been home four days and his skin felt warm and close, coated with a film of dirt and human oils. His hair felt matted, and his face itched terrifically. Sherlock braced himself against the sink. The shower had been running for eight and a half minutes.

He was perfectly able to bathe himself. John was in the living room, but Sherlock didn't need him. He did not. The medicine cabinet was open, the mirror turned to face the wall. Sherlock's shaving razor was there. He could use it, and would, in a moment. Sherlock's fists clenched, unsteady on the porcelain basin. It was simply a matter of will. Oh God, he wished - no. He could do this on his own.

The bathroom air was dense with steam. Sherlock straightened, and with shaking hands reached for the hem of his shirt. Good. He rucked it up around his chest and then paused with his arms wrapped around himself, hands fisted in fabric. Alright. He was alright. After undressing he would step into the shower and just let the hot water wash over him. Simple. Manageable. He could do that. He would shampoo his hair, he would lather a flannel, like Gloria had done, then he would - he would -

Sherlock felt as though his lungs were collapsing. He let go of the shirt and clutched his elbows instead, staring into the veil of billowing steam. Okay, good. He was fine. John was in the living room. Sherlock didn't need John's help to perform this basic task. He didn't need John's help for anything. He was a grown man. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he did not, _did not_ need -

Sherlock gasped for breath. He was fine. He did not need -

He remembered the feel of it; the quick give, the pop. He had heard it, and felt it in his palm, through the bones of his wrist, travelling to a place deep within him as he had snapped Gloria's neck and let her fall. The resistance, the pop and the give; he could feel it.

Sherlock doubled over the sink. Why had he done that? Gloria - He wrenched in another breath. Gloria had used a transparent trick; obvious. It was merely a matter now of undoing it. Sherlock was glad she was dead. He wasn't going to cry.

It had been four days already. Far too long to be behaving this way. He didn't need Gloria, and he didn't need John; not to reassure him, or to stroke his hair, or to fetch him water or cut up toast. He didn't need his brother dropping in every day as though he were some pathetic invalid who needed minding, who needed to be told when to eat and when to sleep and that he was good, and loved -

He wasn't going to cry. He was glad Gloria was dead. She hadn't loved him; it had been a transparent trick. Sherlock didn't need that, her. He didn't need John. He could bathe himself, and shave. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He was fine. He would prove this, he could definitely - he was much stronger than John. John was so emaciated and frail. It would be easy, just the pop, the sudden give -

Sherlock reared back, caught his leg on the toilet, and fell into the corner. His gut twisted as though he would be sick, and he drew his knees in and panted wildly. It was hot in the bathroom, and loud. The cloying steam was heavy against his skin, and panic threaded fiercely through him. He hadn't done that, he would never - it was Gloria's blue eyes staring blindly. John was - oh God, where was John?

Sherlock clambered to his feet. It was so blindingly hot and loud. His pulse roared in his ears. He had failed; he couldn't crack the code. Gloria had loved him and he had killed her -

_Wrong!_

Not wrong! Why was that wrong? He had killed her. He remembered her chin in the heel of his hand, the pop her spine had made, and then the pencil, and he couldn't find John. He had failed and John was dead, he had killed - no. _No. Wrong._ Sherlock burst out of the bathroom. He caught his ankle on a kitchen chair, stumbled and then righted himself. There was John, at the living room table. He was looking out the window.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. John was fine. No, he wasn't fine, but he was alive. He was right there, sitting right there, looking out the window. This was - Sherlock turned and raked his hands through his hair. He was filthy. He needed to bathe. He couldn't think with his shirt clinging to his skin, with the coarse stubble coating his face, and he wanted John to do something, to fix this, to help him, and for fuck's sake - he didn't need help.

Sherlock stormed back into the bathroom, into the shower, under the scalding spray. It soaked into his matted hair and burned his shoulders. He snatched up the shampoo - John's store-brand two-in-one and squeezed it liberally into his palm. He set the unbalanced bottle back on the ledge where it clattered promptly to the floor of the tub. Sherlock scrubbed his scalp, the water searing painfully at the backs of his hands, then he stood and let it beat down upon him.

He noticed when the water went cold. Correction; he noticed that it _had_ gone cold, but he didn't know how long ago. The boiler held forty gallons, with a 4500 watt heating element. The shower dispensed roughly four gallons per minute, and the temperature at which he had run it would have held for as long as sixteen minutes before tapering, perhaps another five before it went completely cold. After that, it was impossible to tell.

The curtain parted. John regarded him for a long moment before reaching in and turning off the water. Sherlock shivered. He realised he had forgotten to remove his clothes. They were sopping wet and plastered to his skin.

John drew him slowly out of the shower and began to peel Sherlock's clinging shirt up over his head.

"I forgot," Sherlock offered. His voice caught in his throat.

"It's alright."

Sherlock let John strip him, let him wrap him in a towel. He closed his eyes against the liquid feeling of relief unfurling in his belly as he bowed his head and let John scrub his hair dry. This wasn't him. He wasn't like this.

John set the second towel aside and rubbed his hands briskly up and down Sherlock's arms. He guided Sherlock out of the bathroom and to the stairs, with a hand on the small of his back. John was still limping badly.

"Can you dress on your own?"

Sherlock nodded. He left John at the foot of the steps.

He changed into a fresh set of pyjamas, and when he came back down John was sitting, looking out the window again. Sherlock climbed onto the sofa, curling up at his end. At night John always took the other side, throwing the blanket over them both and shifting until they nestled together. Sherlock hoped he would do that now.

He didn't.

 

"My brother has been recovered, I'm sure you've heard." Mycroft swirled his port in the glass and watched Camille Warner with studied nonchalance. She met him evenly, eyes cool behind oval glasses set low on her nose.

"I had," she answered.

They were in her parlour, a plate of Belgian chocolates set on the small wrought-iron table between them. It had taken the better part of three days to procure this meeting.

"The ministrations to which he was subjected have left him grievously unstable. Perhaps permanently so."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you."

Camille sipped her port. Her hair had early gone steel grey, and it was drawn loosely behind her; a contrast to the trim severity of her professional persona. Their meetings were not usually so tense. Camille often sought Mycroft's advice on security measures, pre-emptive actions, projected consequences and contingencies. The future was Mycroft's speciality. The present was Camille's.

When Camille spoke, her tone was frank and sincere. "I am."

The parlour was sumptuously decorated but cold, as though someone had taken great care in accumulating and placing the possessions, but had little time to enjoy them. Camille rarely left the office, it was well known. Her work was her life, and had been for forty years.

"You had your chance," she told him. "Several."

Mycroft felt his blood begin to rise, but he remained utterly level. "He's been useful multiple times, indispensable even. Surely that must outweigh - "

"I'm aware," she said tersely, "of his value, both to you and to me. For what it's worth, I opposed it to the last." She had another sip of port, and glanced out the darkened window. Mycroft caught the light on the rim of his glass.

"And yet you must have signed off on it," he finally said.

"I did."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Camille had been a respected figure when Mycroft had been merely beginning his ascent, and twenty years had only lent further gravity to her imposing demeanour. She was a powerful woman. She levelled her gaze at Mycroft.

"They wanted to kill him," she said. "For all he's done for us, he's caused incalculable damage to some of our most sensitive operations. Caplan was the last straw."

Caplan had been Camille's man inside the weapons movement. An accidental death at the docks had set Sherlock on a trail that had nearly exposed the government's role in directing and thus controlling the distribution of illegal firearms within the UK. Camille had only just been able to divert suspicion, onto James Moriarty of all people. Earnest Caplan, of course, had been killed before they were able to attempt an extraction.

"I respect you," Camille continued, "and your brother by proxy, but I could only defend him so far. You were told to reign him in and you failed, Mycroft. Something had to be done. My people demanded it."

Mycroft twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers, framing his next question delicately. Camille could have him removed from the equation nearly as quickly as he could her. It was certain she had already taken precautions in this regard. "How much did you know?" he asked.

Acknowledgement settled behind her eyes. "Nothing. In exchange for his life, they had carte blanche to act as they saw fit. I had no hand in it."

Mycroft had suspected as much. Rather, he had hoped. In twenty years in this business Camille was the closest he had found to an equal, and he respected her. But, though it would have been his own downfall, he would have destroyed her without hesitation had she been the source of the threat to his brother.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but my priorities are clear. Sherlock doesn't even rank. You know that."

He did. In the grand scheme, Sherlock mattered so very little. And yet, that wasn't quite true, was it. Mycroft would have to be quite circumspect indeed if Sherlock's enemies remained under Camille's protection. He would need every ounce of his influence, but he would have his man.

"What would you like," he said, "in exchange?"

Camille smiled, alerting him that their meeting had concluded. "You've run out of favours, Mycroft."

 

 

It wasn't getting better. If anything, it was worse. John sat in his arm chair, his protein shake forgotten before him while Sherlock paced about the flat, opening drawers and cupboards, touching the walls, making small, distressed noises low in his throat. John didn't know what to do. Talking didn't work, he didn't know if Sherlock even heard him anymore. John hurt. He hurt in his whole body, and he was so tired. He was so utterly, ridiculously tired, and alone, and he didn't want to do this anymore. Any of it.

In Afghanistan, John had treated a group of men who had been badly burned along their chests, arms, and faces. Their skin after burning had pulled back dry and white like old paper; blood vessels dead and coagulated, nerve endings completely destroyed. Most of those men had died, if not all. When that amount of tissue was killed, it was impossible to heal; the skin could never recover. John didn't know why he had thought of that. He had had a friend, Jason, who had been dismembered when - nevermind. John remembered picking bits of skull from his hair, afterwards. Gritty, and clumped together where the blood had dried.

John's shoulder throbbed, and his back was stiff and sore from sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock hadn't slept last night. He had twitched and squirmed until John had drawn up into the corner and not for the first time considered proposing they both remove to a proper bed. He hadn't. If they moved to a bed John knew he would cling pathetically to his flatmate and probably cry, and he didn't want to do that. Sleeping in his own room was entirely out of the question. The mere thought of it sent a sick, cold tremor through his body, the thought of waking up alone.

A ring of condensation had puddled around his protein shake; John could see it from the corner of his eye as he stared towards the open window. He wasn't hungry. Sherlock was alternately scratching at the back of his neck and knocking his head against the door frame. John wished Mycroft would arrive.

Mycroft came by every day, as he had said he would. John was glad. He was relieved, at least. They talked about the races when he was here, and other things. John was rubbish at it, but Mycroft's horses nearly always won. The steady thumping stopped as Sherlock stilled, then John heard Mycroft's familiar tread on the stairs. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

Mycroft let himself in, and John heard him set his umbrella near the door, then pause, probably to assess his demented brother. John was doing a crap job looking after him, and this thought lodged painfully between his lungs. He stared out the window.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, then shed his suit jacket and draped it carefully over the chair. "John."

"Hm." John thought that he should probably make eye contact or say hello or something, but he couldn't seem to find the resolve. Mycroft stood hesitantly beside him.

"John," he said. "Forgive my presumption, but I believe you might benefit from a touch of fresh air."

After a moment, John frowned. "Suppose you're right." He didn't move. Mycroft lowered himself into John's field of vision, perching on the edge of the opposite chair. One eyebrow quirked in incongruous concern, and it was Sherlock's expression, that one. It was the first time those two had ever looked like brothers, that John had seen. "How'd Key Lime run yesterday?"

Mycroft flattened his lips distastefully. "Second."

"To?"

"Lucky Song."

John nearly managed a smile at that, or thought he did. Lucky Song hadn't even ranked in Mycroft's estimation. Though Mycroft wasn't one to boast, it was still somehow rewarding when he was wrong, especially to someone like John, who could never get anything right.

Sherlock flitted into the living room, shoulders hunched, breathing through his teeth. He leaned against the window briefly, then retreated to the kitchen.

"John," Mycroft said. "Take some time to yourself. Go buy a newspaper."

Of course, Mycroft was right. John slowly levered himself to his feet. God, he ached. He fetched his cane from behind the chair.

 

It was cool today; overcast, with a breeze that promised rain. John stood outside 221 and debated which way to turn. It made absolutely no difference, so he deliberated a long while. The few pedestrians on Baker Street parted around him.

It was better for Sherlock to stay with Mycroft, really. Mycroft had said that John was needed, that Sherlock needed him, but that couldn't possibly be true. What had he ever done for the man? John was the one who had needed Sherlock, clinging pathetically to the telephone. John had always needed Sherlock more.

John clutched his cane and headed for the park. He was exhausted after fifty yards, and a sharp pain lanced through his leg, spreading in both directions from his knee. He grit his teeth and stopped at a crossing.

He didn't want to do this. At all. Any of it. This thought welled up from the bottom of his lungs and pricked painfully behind his eyes. Cars whizzed through the intersection, and John stood resolutely in place, eyes closed, leaning heavily on his cane.

There had been a case - Alicia Bruin had been eight years old when her mother had drowned her in the Thames. A mercy killing, Sherlock had said. John wondered if that made a difference, when you were killed, if it was someone you had known. Did that make it better or worse? Her coat had been weighted with heavy stones, her dark hair floating loose. Had she looked up at the surface before she died?

The wind felt cold at John’s collar, although he knew it wasn’t. It was August still, or September by now. He wanted to go home. Was it worse to die unexpectedly when you wanted to live, or to have to wait endlessly when you wanted to die? John pressed his teeth tightly together; buried his left hand in his pocket. When he had been trapped, he had sat with his back to the wall, watching the sun chase the shadows until shadows chased sun, and then it was dark. Since then, what had changed? He watched the same thing now from the window at 221B. He had waited and waited for Sherlock’s calls, and now he waited for Mycroft. It was - what good was he? He had been used to torment his only friend. There was nothing he could do to set that right. Sherlock would be better off with Mycroft. John couldn't - oh God, he wasn't going to cry on the street.

The signal switched over and John felt the people around him move to cross, his eyes still tightly closed. The light switched back and he heard the cars rush past. Some might be moving fast enough, he thought. It would be quick, and it couldn't possibly hurt worse than this, but John stood resolutely, stiffly still. Was it worse to be killed unexpectedly, or be made to wait when you wanted to die?

 

Mycroft stood at the window, watching John on the street below. John paused a long while before heading towards Regent's Park. Mycroft let the curtain drift closed, and then turned to find his brother. He was in the hall, crouched at the foot of the steps.

"Come, Sherlock," Mycroft said, and led him into the bathroom. He sat him on the toilet seat and sighed deeply. He had really hoped John might be more observant in such matters, but Mycroft could hardly fault him. He ran the water in the sink and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling them up to the elbow. When the water had heated he drenched the hand towel and wrung it out. Sherlock had drawn worryingly still. Mycroft pressed the towel to his jaw and he dropped his head back, but he was trembling and his eyes rested on nothing any more than a moment. Sherlock hated to have his head or face covered - it was a tick of his, one of which John was evidently unaware. He never wore hats, or hairnets, or masks, or any variety of facial hair. Mummy used to send him into fits in the winter, insisting he cover his head to go out. It was simply one of those things, a high-strung infirmity brought on perhaps by the Holmes having once too often married within the family. The quarter inch stubble coating Sherlock's face right now would be driving him to distraction. Mycroft suppressed a grimace considering why he was unable to remedy the matter on his own.

Sherlock's breath clutched into a strangled gasp when Mycroft removed the towel and dispensed a generous dollop of shaving cream into his palm. The odour affected him - Mycroft should have anticipated that. Sherlock was still until the moment Mycroft touched his face, then he jerked away, ducking his chin against his shoulder. Mycroft waited, and Sherlock gradually lifted his head, his jaw quivering as he bared his throat. Mycroft coated the lower half of his face with the shaving cream and rinsed his hands quickly. Best to get this over with.

The mirror had been left open, and Mycroft retrieved what could only have been Sherlock's razor, unused for several weeks. He began perfunctorily at the flat of Sherlock's left cheek, tilting his head, and Sherlock began to cry. Mycroft shaved briskly along the line of his jaw and below his nose. He tilted his brother's head to the other side and shaved that cheek as well. When he had finished there, he placed a gentle hand to Sherlock's forehead to guide him back, then pressed the blade low to his throat, and had to pause. Tears streaked steadily across his temples, and he was trembling now so violently that Mycroft couldn't continue for fear of cutting him. He waited.

For a time, Sherlock stared fixedly at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, which matted his lashes into glistening points. He had Mummy's clear, grey eyes, and Mummy's lips as well; full and well formed. Mycroft had the curious urge to part them with his thumb.

He noted the erection pushing firmly against Sherlock's cotton trousers, and the way his mouth dropped open as he breathed unsteadily. Mycroft felt an answering arousal stir low in his belly. He pressed the razor to Sherlock's throat and watched his mouth snap closed, then open again with a pleading breath. Exquisite. He stroked slowly upwards, and Sherlock lifted his chin for the blade. Mycroft shook out the razor and pressed it again to that long, pale throat. His brother was crying in earnest now, and his knees had drifted open. That was the only word for Sherlock: exquisite. Mycroft drew the stroke out, then another, and his brother trembled beneath his hand.

When Mycroft had finished, Sherlock slid to the side of the toilet and curled up like a spider, tucking his long thin limbs against him. He clutched the warm towel to his face, wracked with convulsive, silent sobs. Mycroft carefully rinsed the razor and put it away. He washed his hands and rebuttoned his cuffs, thankful that the mirror faced the wall.

 

 

John found Mycroft sitting in the armchair, watching the window. He rose as John entered and gathered the jacket he had set aside.

"John," he said, and he was curiously hesitant to meet John's eye. "If you would be so kind - "

John waited, and finally Mycroft looked at him.

"I think Sherlock might like to look through these, with you." He gestured to the books which had remained, unopened, on the table for days. "If you don't mind. Just...something to keep him occupied," Mycroft concluded.

"Sure." John looked about the flat, but Sherlock must have been upstairs or something. He couldn't hear him pacing, or slamming drawers or anything.

"He's in the toilet," Mycroft offered, studying his own hand where it wrapped around his umbrella handle. "John," he said, and when he looked up, there was something in his eye that John couldn't quite place. It reminded him of Sherlock - that was twice today - that inscrutable look that Sherlock used to have when he wanted John to know what he was thinking without having to speak aloud. "I'm grateful for all you've done," was all Mycroft said, then nodded his farewell and left.

John stood in the middle of the living room, a small, familiar fear trickling through him. Was Sherlock alright? John stumped to the bathroom and found Sherlock huddled on the floor, leaning his head against the toilet tank. John let out a breath and lowered himself beside him.

"Sherlock," he whispered, and touched the side of his face. It was smooth, shaved clean. Lord, what -

"John," Sherlock said. John's heart jumped. That was the most coherent thing Sherlock had said all day. Sherlock leaned into his hand, but wouldn't be drawn from the corner.

"Okay, alright. There we go," John said, wedging in beside him and pulling him close. He was warm and smelled like shaving cream. He dropped his head to John's chest.

"What happened?" John asked gently. He rubbed Sherlock’s back, trying to ignore the way the bathroom tile pressed painfully against his bones, or the fact that Sherlock was too heavy for him right now. John was so sick of hurting. He pressed his nose to Sherlock's hair, breathing around the knot in his throat.

Sherlock took John's hand, the one that shook, and covered it with his own as though to press the tremor from it. When this didn't work, he clutched it tightly and pulled it to him.

"It's okay," John said, but Sherlock shook his head and breathed a soft sound like a stifled sob. "Yes it is, it's fine, Sherlock.” John felt his wrist spasm in Sherlock’s grip, and a draught caught the bathroom door, slamming it shut. “Everything's going to be fine."


	6. Chapter 6

“Jesus believed the Earth belonged to the wicked,” James said pleasantly. He wore the thin blue hospital scrubs that had been provided for him, his suit no doubt hung neatly in the wardrobe. His knees and cuffs were stained a steady ochre. His fingertips too were ragged and dark. The flat smelled overwhelmingly of tea.

“I hadn’t taken you for a religious man,” said Mycroft. James’s dark eyes widened and a skeletal grin split his face.

“Oh, I’m not,” he answered softly.

 

It was eleven forty-seven on their ninth day home, and John was in his room with the door closed. Not only closed, but locked. Sherlock paced tightly through the living room, one bleeding cuticle between his teeth.

John had every right to be in his room alone. Of course he had every right to be; it was natural. Sherlock understood that John might want time to himself, away from Sherlock, alone, in his room, with the door locked. If Sherlock could get away from himself he would have done so a long time ago.

Aside from that, it was unnecessary to be in John’s presence every hour of every day. It was obnoxious, of course John was irritated. Sherlock only knew the door was locked because he had tried to get in not five minutes ago. Pathetic, noisome, cloying. Unfortunately his awareness that he was all these things did nothing to mitigate the behavior. _Think, Sherlock. Think, think._

The more irritating Sherlock was, the less John would want to be around him in the future. Therefore, by delaying his own gratification right now, Sherlock could see more of John later, rather than less and less. There was no point in pretending this was not the desired outcome: the thought of losing John entirely made Sherlock’s stomach seize.

All right then, breathing, slowly. In and out. It was too quiet downstairs without John sitting by the window. Sherlock had to know he was all right. He had to know. He had to know.

With effort, Sherlock stopped himself pacing. He lowered his fingers from his lips - appalling habit, when had that started? He nervously dried his fingertips against his trousers. He knew John was sitting upstairs with a loaded service weapon in his bedside table drawer. He thought of John sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing off the safety and testing the barrel against his teeth.

With a small, stifled noise, Sherlock crept upstairs.

Two fingers to the handle told him the door was still locked. For a moment his jaw worked uselessly, framing his words without sound.

John was so unhappy. Sherlock had seen it in his eyes and the set of his shoulders, but had been too selfish to do anything about it. He rested his fingers against the door. His sleeve was wet. God, he was crying again. These days he did nothing but cry.

“John,” he finally called. His voice wobbled weakly before dropping off. There was no response. John also had three quarters of a bottle of Diazepam that wouldn’t expire until May of next year. He could have finished the bottle and choked to death on his own vomit by now. As long as Sherlock didn’t break down the door and confirm that he was dead, there was the chance that he was still alive. He hadn’t the strength to break down the door, regardless.

Shaking, Sherlock withdrew to his own bedroom. He fetched his lock picks from atop his bureau and returned to kneel before John’s door. Quietly, he picked the lock, then stood and opened the door a crack. His bare feet were long and pale against the floorboards. His vision swam. Until he confirmed that John was dead, there was the chance that he was still alive. Sherlock pushed open the door. John was watching him, waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes were sad, but his hands were empty.

Sherlock released a whimpering breath. He wiped his nose across his sleeve. God, he was so pathetic. But he had a job to do. He swept across the room and ransacked the bedside table drawer. Matches, condoms, eye-drops, rubber band, torch, and a small (full) bottle of paracetamol. Sherlock pocketed this last and moved on to the desk. Six pens, a ream of paper, box of military awards, discharge papers, pile of phone bills –

“It’s gone,” John said quietly. Sherlock stopped short, bent over the second desk-drawer. John cleared his throat. “A few days ago. I got rid of it.”

Very slowly, Sherlock straightened, torn between belief and dread. If the gun was out of the picture, that was good. Good. He raised his sleeve to his nose again but stopped himself in time. He’d got rid of the gun; that was good. He’d felt he had to. That was – that wasn’t – John shouldn’t feel like that. Sherlock wiped his nose on his sleeve. God damn it.

“And the Diazepam?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock cursed feebly, turning his head away. He wanted to be sick. How long had John been thinking like this? He didn’t even know. He hadn’t been paying attention. When he finally looked back, John was staring at the floor, lacing his fingers together. He hadn’t put on any weight at all since their return.

Sherlock took the paracetamol from his pocket and set it on the desk. He was being silly. If John wanted to kill himself, a bottle of over the counter headache medicine wouldn’t make a bloody difference. Sherlock crossed the room, then stood before John. Neither spoke.

Sherlock settled a hand on John’s shoulder. Then he leaned. After a moment John gave in, lay down, and curled onto his side. Sherlock climbed over him and hugged him tightly from behind, burying his nose in the nape of John’s neck. He should have done this a long time ago. John clutched Sherlock’s wrists to him. His shoulders trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. His voice was wet and hoarse. “I couldn’t do anything. I hurt you.”

If he could have, Sherlock would have folded John into him completely, in between his lungs, beside his heart. There was no reason for John to feel sorry, ever.

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock whispered.

John turned over, tucking his face to Sherlock’s chest as though trying to burrow beneath him. His sobs were soft and desperate. Sherlock squeezed John tighter, then moved one leg over his and pulled him closer still. At Canary Wharf, Sherlock had been given a choice. He had chosen John, and he had chosen correctly. Sherlock reached for the duvet and folded it around them both. For now they would be safe like this, together.

 

Mycroft retrieved from his breast pocket a small tin with a sliding lid. From it he shook a single blue tablet that was scored down the middle. He set on the coffee table, both eyes steadily on James.

“We don’t want a repeat of yesterday’s performance,” he said.

James’s expression was stark and inscrutable. He held Mycroft’s gaze for a long, silent moment, then leaned forward very slowly, setting both feet flat on the floor. With one hand he reached for the tablet, and with the other he fetched one of two glasses of ice water. ( _Fresh out of tea,_ he had chirped.)

Leaning back, James placed the tablet on his tongue, and raised the glass of water to his lips. Eyes never faltering, he swallowed the pill. Mycroft graced him with a small smile.

“Good.”

James set the glass back on the table, then assumed a more casual position, sliding further into his seat. He schooled his face into its habitual mock-pleasantness.

Yesterday, as the surveillance footage revealed, James had indulged a curious behavior; for the first time in his nine days solitary confinement, he had paced anxiously about the bedroom, plucking repeatedly at his sleeves. He had knelt, then curled onto the floor, and spent the next four minutes wracked with epileptic convulsions.

No aid had been administered during this time, of course. For half an hour longer he had lain in a daze, then crawled onto the bed and huddled in a small heap beneath the blankets. Records showed that James Franklin Moriarty of Dalkey Commons had suffered grand mal seizures since childhood. The tablet Mycroft had dispensed was Clonazepam which, prior to his apprehension nine days ago, James had been accustomed to ingest daily. A powerful opportunity, Mycroft surmised. He slid the tin back into his pocket.

“Now,” he said, and inclined his head toward the tea-stained walls. “Perhaps you can tell me a bit about these.”

A swift sequence of emotions played across James’s face, settling on pleased. “Do you like them?” he breathed. The earnestness was an act; the vanity wasn’t.

“Very much,” Mycroft answered honestly. “Your proclivities as well as your talent come quite unexpected. But then, I could hardly know what to expect of you, could I.”

“No, you really couldn’t.”

With a contemplative hum, Mycroft looked at the wall.

The paintings were lovingly rendered, the monotone pallet only enhancing the solemnity of the work. The thinnest layers were luminous gold; the shadows layered, deep, and nuanced. They depicted scenes from the New Testament; Jesus Christ amongst the sinning masses. Folds of cloth were done in broad washes of color, and each face was unerringly human and unique; deftly portrayed with a confidence that belied a singular talent, especially given the fragility of the medium. It would have taken extraordinary diligence, and they were, in a word, exquisite.

James shifted, drawing one bare foot onto his chair. His eyes were alight as he looked upon his work. “I admire his composure most of all,” he said, and then laughed lightly. “But then I would, wouldn’t I, since I’ve hardly any. His disciples were so stupid.”

Mycroft said nothing. He was regarding the furthest painting, the one nearest the door to the bedroom, which showed Christ upon a precipice with a shadowy figure beside him, overlooking a city. The economical use of light and shadow gave the impression of far more detail than technically had been conveyed. _All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomever I will I give it._ Of course Mycroft was familiar with the scene.

James continued. “They’re oblivious to the forces at work, all those tiny, boring people. They’re like ants. They’re so small they’re beyond good and evil. And yet Jesus thought he could save the ants.” James rested his chin in one hand, smiling softly. “I like that. It’s whimsical.”

Mycroft watched him from the corner of his eye. “In your line of work, one might assume you supported the opposing force.” James looked at him then.

“One would be in error, then, wouldn’t one.”

There was a pregnant pause, then James energetically returned both feet to the floor, sitting upright. “It’s art!” he exclaimed. “Good and evil have nothing to do with it. This is all just a game.”

“Be that as it may, you’re well aware of how unpleasant it is to lose.”

“Truly, Mr. Holmes, I can only imagine.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a smile.

“And how is Dr. Watson,” James asked abruptly.

“Better,” Mycroft lied. It was James’s turn to smile.

“ _Le pauvre_ ,” he said. “Solitary confinement can do such funny things to a man, even one as steady as our dear Doctor.” He settled back into his chair again, drawing one arm around his waist. His fingers seized like claws into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re quite biblical yourself, Mr. Holmes; an eye for an eye.”

Mycroft contemplated him for a long, steady moment. The terms of John’s confinement had never been disclosed. James laughed.

“Of course I _knew_ , you silly sausage! I know every crime committed in this city. Well,” he amended, “every crime worth knowing.”

Mycroft maintained his silence. Sherlock would inevitably stalemate a silence, but against James it was proving to be Mycroft’s strongest hand. Predictably, James caved first.

“Do you want a hint? Oh, say you want a hint. What will you give me in exchange?”

Mycroft tapped his breast pocket, and James stilled.

“Very well,” he said then, lightly; “Riddle-dee riddle-dee-dee, I see something you can’t see, and the color of it is _white._ ”

White. Mycroft had considered this possibility, but it would require further investigation. He retrieved the tin and set five blue tablets in a careful row. James watched him narrowly until Mycroft sat back, his move complete.

Deliberating, James remained as impenetrable as he had often proven capable, eyes lost beneath dark lashes. Finally, in a voice that cracked before it steadied, he recited, “What always runs but never walks, often murmurs, never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a mouth but never eats?”

Mycroft carefully retrieved one tablet and returned it to the tin. James hunched over his knees, thin shoulders tense. His hands were clasped before him, white knuckled. He was really such a slight young man.

“Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,” he said in a hushed voice. Mycroft retrieved one more tablet as James shivered, muttering the rest of the rhyme noiselessly.

After a very long time, James swept the remaining tablets into his palm, closing his thin, stained fingers tightly around them. He didn’t look at Mycroft as he did so. Mycroft rose, slipping the tin back into his pocket. James had chosen his three three tablets: his three days in mind-numbing solitude. _The longer this takes, the longer I get to live..._ Indeed, but at a cost. Mycroft turned to leave.

“Mycroft,” James called out. His face was ashen, but he flashed a sharp smile when Mycroft looked back. “I’ll be waiting,” he sang.

 

In the car, Mycroft thumbed through the messages on his mobile, chagrined. The drug trade, James had told him, at the river.

The weapons trade had been closely controlled; there was little opportunity for any involved government agent to profit from it discreetly. Whoever was operating under Camille had likely proposed Sherlock’s abduction only after his private interests had been disrupted, using the Caplan debacle as a blind. An interruption in the shipment of guns had interrupted the shipment of drugs, which would have widespread repercussions, radiating from the thwarted point of disembarkation at the Thames.

Mycroft dialled his assistant. _One step, two step,_ James’s third rhyme continued. Round and round the garden, indeed. This was going to require _legwork._

 

John’s breath was soft against his chest. The afternoon light had just begun to creep through the window, across the desk, dropping off to catch on the vertical surface of the chair. Sherlock watched it in the wardrobe mirror.

Since the beginning of their partnership, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to heal John. It had happened organically, and as such Sherlock hadn’t been immediately aware that he had claimed this responsibility. Had his self of two years ago been apprised of the situation, he would have thought it ill advised, but his failure to uphold it in recent weeks only made it painfully clear how very much it meant to him, that John be safe and happy.

John’s hair was soft too, against his cheek, but his bones were hard and angular, and Sherlock could feel his ribs beneath his fingertips.

He would kill whoever had done this to John. He would simply eradicate them from the face of the planet. He would not extract revenge. He would not make them suffer. He would simply kill them and move on. Sherlock held John more tightly to him. He breathed.

Gloria had been a pawn. That much was patently obvious. How valuable a pawn was yet to be seen. Looking at the situation objectively it was clear she or whomever she worked for had wished to utilise Sherlock’s intelligence, though the objective remained obscure. Although initially the scenario had had Moriarty written all over it, it had dragged out for too long without an appearance, and Moriarty was nothing if not theatrical to a fault. The possibility of his involvement was not eliminated; merely shelved for now.

Gloria. Sherlock didn’t want to think of Gloria. He thought instead of the two men, one shorter than the other, darker. Sherlock had spent weeks in their company, yet he hadn’t observed a bleeding thing – ah, but he could recall. He breathed in deeply. John’s hair fluttered against his nostrils, smelling comfortingly of cheap shampoo. Everything about John was so practical, down to the generic brand of soap he used. Sherlock loved him without reserve.

The shorter man: he had been of mixed Eastern-European decent, vaguely Mediterranean. He had been for the most part well groomed, with the curious anomaly of an expensive leather jacket, but very old shoes, and the marks of a watch that had been constantly worn and only recently removed. He was a man habituated to marked fluctuations in income: a sudden boon means a new jacket, the impression of wealth when seated, belied by the poor state of his shoes; a man who wants to make an impression. The lines on his wrist told that the skin beneath had seldom if ever seen the light of day, until the watch was removed from the picture, but not replaced: pawned. A gambler. Where?

Sherlock tapped his thumb against John’s shoulder blade. Where? Gingerly he peeled back the blanket and extricated himself from the bed. Lord, he hadn’t used his laptop in weeks. Where was it? He padded downstairs. Not on any of the tables or shelves. He checked beneath the sofa. Aha. The charger was plugged in beneath the window. Sherlock retrieved that as well, and went back upstairs. That particular jacket had been available at Debenhams in Soho for their autumn release, placing the casual shopper (extensive wearing on the soles: by necessity he’d often walked) within range of any number of casinos.

John was awake when Sherlock returned. He silently watched Sherlock plug in the laptop. Sherlock climbed back onto the bed, and with one arm, shucked the duvet from beneath his flatmate, then tucked it around them both. He balanced the laptop against his knees and flipped it open, fingering the trackpad impatiently, then tapping the spacebar until the screen blinked on. John relaxed and curled in closer, then inched himself up on one elbow.

“S’going on?” he asked. Sherlock looked down at him and quirked the beginning of a smile. Turning back to the laptop, he said, “We have a case.”


	7. Chapter 7

Summer was over. The worker bees, their wings in tatters, no longer of any use, were being driven from the hive, dying now in droves. Mycroft sipped his tea in silence while his mother watched the garden in its earliest stages on decay. He spared a glance at his wrist and suppressed a sigh. After a time he said, “Mummy, I must be going.”

Without looking at him she said, “Take care of your brother.” Her voice scratched like dry leaves.

 

Anxiety was etched into James’s face when Mycroft entered. His hair was unkempt; his face unshaven. His murals had expanded slightly but tapered off into a pale wash with only the faintest suggestion of form. Others had been lent further detail – the corner of an eye, the curve of a lip – with dark smudges of blood from the man’s ragged fingertips. James slouched in his chair but his fingers plucked nervously at the upholstery.

Mycroft closed the door behind him and crossed the room to set a small, brown paper sack on the coffee table. He rested his umbrella against the chair and retrieved the tin from his breast pocket. James’s eyes darted towards him, and when Mycroft shook one blue, scored tablet into his palm, James finally met his eye, still and guarded. Mycroft held the pill out to him. He sensed rather than saw the minute shudder that rippled through his adversary’s frame. 

James accepted the pill and, brown eyes unblinking, swallowed it dry. Mycroft adjusted the knees of his trousers and lowered himself into his chair.

“I’ve brought you a little something,” he said, and gingerly shifted the brown paper sack to James’s side of the table. James watched him from beneath lowered brows. He was unusually quiet today. His fingers were nervous and his lips were chewed raw. As he breathed in he seemed to lift from the spine, and in a slow, measured movement he picked up the bag and leaned back in his seat. “A present, for me? Mr. Holmes, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s nothing much. A trifle, really.”

James unrolled the lip of the bag. He peered inside and then drew still. There came a softening of features only just perceptible about his eyes. He reached into the bag and withdrew a box of tea and three dense, triangular sponges of the sort used in the application of stage makeup. 

James was speechless for some time. His ruined lips murmured soundlessly, then he very carefully returned the items to the bag. He folded the edge over once, twice, then made as though to return it to the table, but changed his mind and tucked behind the leg of his chair. He resumed his slouch, elbows propped on each armrest, one hand picking at his lips. 

“It wouldn’t do to deprive an artist of his tools,” said Mycroft. James’s eyes were wide and nearly guileless. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. Mycroft smiled tightly.

“Now then,” he said, and sat up. He opened the tin once more and shook five of the tablets into his palm. He lined them up on the table. 

“I trust the investigation is moving right along?” James rested his ankle on one knee.

“Quite,” Mycroft replied.

“And how is our dear Sherlock and his dog?”

"Very well, thank you."

James hummed. "I doubt you’re making any progress on that code."

"Naturally not." 

James smiled. Studying the series of pills before him, he pushed his lips into a thoughtful pout. “I hope you’re enjoying our little game, Mr. Holmes.”

Very evenly, Mycroft said, “I’m quite at leisure to indulge.”

After a moment, James looked at him and held up one finger. In a narrative tone he began, “Have you ever witnessed the anger of the good shopkeeper, James Goodfellow, when his careless son happened to break a pane of glass?”

Mycroft waited for him to continue, though naturally he was familiar with the parable. When James was quiet, Mycroft paraphrased the original French:

“It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Everybody must live, and what would become of the glaziers if panes of glass were never broken?”

James watched him solemnly. The story could be interpreted several ways, but with this man it was likely to take on the least charitable color: at the very least, someone intended to profit from the destruction wrought by Sherlock’s interference at the docks. Whether or not said destruction had been orchestrated by one or another ‘glazier’ in particular remained to be seen. Mycroft retrieved one tablet and returned it to the tin.

James slid low in his seat and began to jostle his knees. His eyes were alight as his accent rounded out towards Scottish.

“From the dawn of time we came; moving silently down through the centuries, living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the Gathering; when the few who remain will battle to the last.’” He was grinning now. Mycroft retrieved another pill. He recalled having seen the film with several friends during University. _There can be only one!_ Good lord. In the open market, the implications were obvious, and also predictable, but Mycroft let it slide solely on the merit of the memory it evoked. 

“ _Vy gavarite pa ruski?”_ James asked. Mycroft’s pleasant reminiscence was replaced by a sickening chill. James’s grin had turned cold and shark-like. Mycroft held his eye for a moment, and very deliberately returned one pill to the table. 

“Oh _good_ ” James drawled. “Little Tanya, she’s your man. If she can’t do it, no one can.” 

For this Mycroft was tempted to return a second pill, but he calmly refrained. Tatjana Mikhailovich had been inside the Russian mafia for over six years. Mycroft had vetted her personally. He made careful note to have her efficiently extracted from what was now clearly a compromised position.

“Not the Russians then,” James mused. “Then who could it be, I wonder. What did they want from the great Sherlock Holmes?” James paused to contemplate the ceiling, resting his head against the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and breathed in gently through his teeth. “Aside from that elegant neck, of course. Or that mouth.” He lowered his gaze and looked at Mycroft from beneath his lashes. “That isn’t very difficult to imagine. It must have already crossed your mind: just another twisted sex crime? How boring.” He sighed and allowed his knees to drift open. “What could anyone possibly want with an obedient, pliant, _willing_ Sherlock?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, threatening to leave the four pills and get on with his day. James rolled his eyes and said, “Fine. Fine. So touchy, Mr. Holmes.” He held his breath for a moment. Without changing his languid posture, he began to speak.

“I couldn’t help noticing on the FBI’s rather dull public website that I have been elevated to the more prestigious Ten Most Wanted list. Is this coincidence or are you back on the case? If so, _goody, goody._ ”

Mycroft frowned. James Moriarty was not in the FBI’s database, let alone on their public website. He picked up one of the pills, regardless. The allusion evaded him at present, but he would ponder it out later. James scoffed. “That one's so obvious. Ask your assistant.” He began to hum a nameless tune, and idly fingered the inseam of his tea-stained pyjama bottoms. Three tablets remained.

“A wolf had been prowling around a flock of sheep for a long time,” James began, “and the shepherd watched very anxiously to prevent him from carrying off a lamb. But the wolf did not try to do any harm. Instead he seemed to be helping the shepherd take care of the sheep. At last the shepherd got so used to seeing the wolf about that he forgot how wicked he could be.

“One day he even went so far as to leave his flock in the wolf's care while he went on an errand. But when he came back, he saw how many of the flock had been killed and carried off, and he cried, “why, oh why did I trust my sheep to a wolf?” He gazed lazily at Mycroft, and they were silent for a time. Mycroft took back another pill.

James stretched in his chair, arching his back and then relaxing bonelessly. “Speaking of wolves,” he said. “How is the hunt these days? You wouldn’t neglect to track down that idiot, would you? _Gloria_ ,” he sneered.

“I have people looking into it, of course,” said Mycroft. “I have more delicate matters to pursue.” Truthfully, he had left that line of inquiry to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He began to question the wisdom of that delegation, but dismissed it just as quickly. Moriarty was attempting to undermine his confidence in his networks. Mycroft felt a thrill run through him.

“She couldn’t appreciate what she had,” James whispered. “No, she couldn’t.” He toyed absently with the collar of his shirt: thin cotton, pale blue like the walls in the ambient light from the frosted windows. His skin was nearly transparent, and Mycroft could faintly detect the rhythmic pulse beating at the line of his bared throat.

“I confess, I was a little bit jealous,” James continued. “Well, all right. A lot. She held him right in the palm of her hand. Sherlock Holmes, at your mercy. What must that have been like.” He breathed in indulgently, and Mycroft felt a slow warmth begin to pool low in his belly. Really, he should put a stop to this.

“I could make him beg so sweetly. That self-centered, arrogant little thing would give everything to me. He would love me for it. He’d spread his legs as I marked him.”

Mycroft remained very carefully still. He remembered the way Sherlock’s lips had parted, pleading. His brother had spread his legs for him, trembling as he’d pressed the razor to his throat.

James’s own throat was wantonly exposed; his genitals swelling beneath thin cotton. He was so extraordinarily vulnerable. 

“James,” Mycroft said softly. “Let’s keep to the matter at hand.”

James curled slightly in his seat, the torpor in his limbs once more replaced with purpose. He tucked himself against the arm of the chair and rested his knuckles against his cheek. “I’ve been such a good friend,” he murmured. “You don’t even realize what a friend I’ve been to you, Mycroft.” He pressed his lips against his fist and turned his head away. “All this commotion over a single spook, disastrously exposed by the world’s only consulting detective. Ernest Caplan: a grievous loss to the nation.” James shook his head sadly, and settled his chin on his palm. “Well,” he shrugged, “unless you knew what he’d really been up to – his little business on the side.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. James’s mouth twisted in wry resignation. He looked pointedly at the pills on the table, eyebrows raised. 

Mycroft leaned forward to retrieve another. “Well,” he said. “that should hardly come as any surprise.” 

The pill clattered lightly into the tin as James hummed his agreement. “He did spy on people for money.” 

James sat up now to study his final move. His fingers tapped lightly at his lips. He reached across the table and pressed his fingertip over the final tablet. “Mr. Holmes, surely your lovely little addict of a brother would concur: if you give a man a fish, he will eat for one day. But – “ he raised his finger, and the circular tablet stuck to the tip – “teach a man to fish, and he will eat for a lifetime.” He extended his arm and presented the tablet to Mycroft.

Mycroft allowed a small smile of genuine amusement. With a brush of fingertips he gently steadied the young man’s wrist. With his other hand he plucked the pill from the proffered finger, and released the wrist with a light caress. James’s breath caught in his throat, and he withdrew into his chair, folded and still as a wounded bird.

Mycroft returned the tin of tablets to his breast pocket. Kindly, he said, “Until tomorrow, Jim.” Jim watched him silently, his dark eyes wide. He was really such a pretty little thing.

 

“Sherlock,” John panted. His cane clacked against the pavement as he struggled to keep pace. Sherlock remembered to hunch his shoulders as he dropped back. Not good. Eleanor could never walk that quickly. She slowed to a feeble crawl and took her husband’s elbow in her gnarled and arthritic hand. She patted his arm. “Christ,” John muttered.

They were making very little progress, literally and figuratively. It took approximately a full turn of the seasons to make it as far as one street to the next, and they had discovered nothing to jog Sherlock’s memory or to spark a connection in his mind; any variety of break in the case, or the pathetic collection of data that passed for a case at present. They had been to seven bookies and eight casinos, placing meaningless bets on the off chance that Sherlock would see something, anything to ignite his mind and shake off this mental paralysis. John’s breathing was labored, and he was obviously struggling from the day’s exertions. Sherlock squeezed his elbow unconsciously.

John hadn’t said it, but he had been afraid. It was written clearly in his eyes, his fingers, the tense set of his shoulders. He’d been afraid to be left in the flat alone, which would have seemed pathetic had Sherlock not been terrified to leave the flat without him.

“Sherlock, I really need to stop,” John breathed. His face was creased into a constant grimace as he bit back the pain his weakened condition inflicted. He was wearing a dense, padded overcoat in beige and brown. Sherlock had been worried he would catch a chill, and it had the added effect of making him appear heavier than he was. Both of their faces were subtly powdered over thin layers of liquid latex that wrinkled around the eyes, brow, and beneath their chins. Sherlock was wearing his navy dress - the one Mrs. Hudson had chosen for him in Florida - belted high around the waist, with thick black shoes with orthotic support. He had gone with the 38H today because Eleanor had had quite a lot of children. “Why don’t we sit for a moment, dear,” she said.

“Fucking Christ,” said John.

There was something lodged in Sherlock’s memory that he just wasn’t seeing. There had to be. The golf-course colored carpet, the spray of blood against the wall. The heavy-set man struggling beneath him, stained fingers scrabbling – stained, why were they stained? Grease, black oil beneath the fingertips, mechanic or tinkerer: mechanic, the grease had always been there, habitual, not a hobby. So: mechanic, then. That was equally useless as a gambler with a leather jacket among the millions of people in London. 

They sat at a café. Eleanor ordered a pot of tea. There had to be something else, something _useful_. Linoleum floor beneath his bare feet. Gloria’s soft fingertips – Sherlock sucked in a breath. John was sitting across from him. John was there.

“Hey,” John said, and touched his hand. “You alright?” He peered at Sherlock through layers of artificial age. It had been all too easy to convert John into this frail, decrepit creature. Suddenly Sherlock wanted very much to return home. John smiled at him in that way he had, with just his eyes. His hand was warm.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Mycroft said Mrs. Hudson would be back today.”

Sherlock nodded. He could feel the latex clinging to his skin; the way the spray made his hair feel stiff and matted. He tried to bring Eleanor back - it was her skin: she didn’t mind it - but his concentration broke and she was gone. Sherlock twisted his head away, as though he could escape the clinging, crinkling sensation. Oh God, he needed to get out of here. As calmly as he could manage, he said, “I think we should call it a day.”

John’s brow creased in concern. “Okay,” he said quietly. He left a few notes on the table to pay for tea that hadn’t arrived, then he led the way out.

In the cab, Sherlock sat stiffly in the corner until his resolve disintegrated, then he clawed frantically at the latex on his face. Finally John stilled him and peeled it slowly off.

 

 

Mrs. Hudson kissed them both anxiously, and something inside John unraveled and relaxed. “My poor, dear boys,” she fussed. “Go up, go up! I’ll fix tea.”

Sherlock made a beeline for the toilet once up the stairs, and John could hear him running the tap. John shed his thick jacket and turned on the gas fireplace. He knew Sherlock liked to lounge by it, or had done back when he’d been capable of lounging. John sighed and dragged a hand over his face, fingers catching on the unfamiliar wrinkles. Grimacing, he peeled the layers away, and in a flight of fancy left them on the mantel for Sherlock.

Sherlock returned, his hair only rinsed and still dripping. He still had on that ridiculous bosom, but he toed off the black shoes near the door. The thin sheen of pantyhose webbed over his toes. John thought it probable that Sherlock had needed this disguise today, not to go undetected as he made his rounds, but simply to find the courage to leave the flat. He knew it had taken monumental strength for Sherlock to drag himself this far, and this thought settled sadly within him; one more upon a heap of sad and hopeless thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson could be heard laboring up the steps, and Sherlock dashed down to help her. He reentered the room with a shoulder to the door, gripping the laden silver tea tray. He set it on the table between the two armchairs, then seemed at a loss for how to address the seating arrangement. John solved this for him by sitting at the living room table and turning the chair around. Sherlock herded Mrs. Hudson into John’s usual chair, then climbed into his own, tucking his stockinged feet beneath him. His damp hair clung in ringlets to his neck. John was always surprised by how long it was.

“And how was your trip, Mrs. Hudson,” John asked.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that – a bunch of old hens. Here you are, dear.” She handed him his tea and a dish that was excessively laden with biscuits.

“Did you see Jane and Delilah?” Sherlock asked.

“I did, and they send their regards. You know how fond they are of you.”

“Thank you,” he said, as she passed him his tea.

“I didn’t hear about all this – oh all this, all these terrible things until I was on my way back to London. I wish you’d told me, Sherlock. I’d have come back straight away.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your well-earned vacation with more of my nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” she said sternly. Sherlock was silent.

“We’re so sorry about the C flat,” John said, and cleared his throat. “We’ll have them out of here in no time. We’re working on it. Mycroft is – um, he’s working on it.”

Mrs. Hudson waved away his concerns. “It isn’t the first time, dear,” she said. John wondered what on Earth that was supposed to mean. “You boys need someone to look after you. I’ll see what I have in the freezer, but I’ll do a big shop tomorrow. You write down what you’d like and I’ll be sure to put together something. Oh. My poor boys.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and suddenly looked as though she might cry. 

After a moment, Sherlock changed the subject. “When we were in Florida I wasn’t able to meet with Mrs. Hudson inconspicuously. That’s how Eleanor came along.” Mrs. Hudson was still staring into the fire. She took her hand from her lips.

“I remember picking out that dress. Oh, he was so funny, John, he had me in stitches the entire time. Where were we, Sherlock, a Walmart or a Kmart or something – “ She dabbed at the corner of her eye and composed herself.

“Walmart.”

“That was the day the FBI raided the house. Oh, they left everything in such a shambles.”

“They did, didn’t they,” said Sherlock, smiling.

 

An hour later, the tea and biscuits were nearly gone. “Her husband owned all those Burger Kings,” Mrs. Hudson was saying. “Sherlock, you remember the one, Elizabeth. Well, we always like to play at the craps table, especially on a Friday night, and I don’t know how, but Delilah has a knack for it – I couldn’t begin – well, anyway, Lizzie’s one of those women who just likes to sit in front of one of those machines, just pressing a button. They don’t even have the levers anymore. I don’t pretend to understand it, but she was just _addicted_ to the slots. All night – “

Sherlock drew bolt upright in his chair. _”Oh!”_ he said, his fingers immediately steepled at his lips. He stood. “Lucretia DeMartinez. _Obvious._ ” John looked at him.

“Sorry, what?”

“The grease, John. The grease beneath his fingernails. You’re a genius, Mrs. Hudson. No, I’m a genius. Lucretia DeMartinez was convicted for tax evasion in 2007. Her family runs a slot machine repair service, and on top of fixing slot machines, they’re adept at _fixing_ slot machines, and their services are generally in high demand in the more organized establishments.” He thumbed frantically through his blackberry, peering over his stuffed cleavage. “She was put away in July of ’07 and I _knew_ I’d seen those ears somewhere before. Aha!” He held his mobile triumphantly before John, revealing a news photograph of a posh woman ducking the camera, fingers splayed wide, hiding all but her hair and one heavily jeweled ear.

John looked at the photograph. He looked at Sherlock. “And this means…”

Sherlock threw up his hands. “It _means_ , John, it _means_ that we have a _name_.”

“Oh,” John said. “Right. Of course. Um…how does it mean that?” Sherlock whirled away in disgust, then ground to a halt. Mycroft was standing in the doorway. The energy slipped from Sherlock’s frame, and he was quiet.

“I’m pleased to see you up and about,” Mycroft said. He crossed the room and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. “Welcome back,” he said. “I trust you enjoyed your excursion to the U.S.”

“I did, but if only I’d known – “

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Hudson. We’ve kept everything well in hand.” He turned to John and asked, “and how are you feeling?” He raised a wry brow at the remnants of John’s disguise.

“Much better, lately,” John smiled.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Mycroft paused. “You’ve been keeping yourselves occupied?”

Sherlock moved to stand beside John, just behind his right shoulder. His attitude was cautious. Mycroft took a breath and then winced as though loth to proceed.

“A certain matter has been brought to my attention,” he began, and looked between John and Sherlock. Christ, and Sherlock still half dressed as Eleanor – “It seems you’ve taken it upon yourselves to track down the root of the crime committed against you. I can’t help but find this inadvisable.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson. “That sounds dangerous, and with John in such a way –“ John waved her off. The case was the only thing keeping either of them sane; they had been so much better because of the case. John couldn’t bear the thought of his friend lapsing back into the state he’d been in. They _needed_ the case. Sherlock, for his part, was silent.

“John,” Mycroft continued. “Nothing pleases me more than to see your recovering health. I simply worry about the…repercussions of such actions. Surely you can allow that my concerns are valid.”

John nodded. He felt Sherlock run his fingers down the back of his sleeve.

“I realize it is in neither of you natures to be housebound, which is why I’ve devised a proposal that I believe will satisfy... _everyone_ concerned. I’ve put in a word with some of my people, and they are still willing to create a _temporary_ position – strictly on a consulting basis – that would keep you engaged and sufficiently stimulated until I am able to resolve the current situation. John as well,” he added. “Naturally.”

Sherlock was twisting John’s jumper between his fingers now.

“The situation being what it is, I think it advisable to keep your activities a bit closer to home, at least for the time being.”

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was low in pitch and timbre. “Thank you for your offer, Mycroft, but as ever, I refuse.”

John bit back a grin. He couldn’t help it. In his near daily visits, Sherlock spoke to Mycroft infrequently if at all, and tolerated his presence with a wary acceptance. Though John _was_ inclined to agree with Mycroft, at least to a point, it was lovely to hear Sherlock sounding like himself again.

Mycroft’s lips had compressed into a humorless line. He looked at John. “You can see the merit in my suggestion.”

John hesitated. It would be good, useful, and interesting work, and safe on top of that. He knew Mycroft would keep them safe. John felt Sherlock stiffen at his back, and he cleared his throat. “Um. I think we’ll be fine on our own. Thanks.”

Mycroft held his eye for a long moment. John had the feeling he had not only disappointed but wounded him somehow. He wanted what was best for Sherlock, they both did. But Sherlock had been so animated only a moment before, like his normal self. Surely it was more important to be healthy than safe? John’s blood began to quicken, but he set his jaw and Mycroft looked away.

“Very well. I’d hoped that you, at least, would see reason, Dr. Watson.” That stung, more than it should have. “You put me in a very difficult position.” Mycroft directed this at both of them.

“The answer is still no. Good day, Mycroft,” Sherlock said sharply. Mycroft studied his fingers, closed around the handle of his umbrella. The books he had brought on spiders and birds had been shoved hastily beneath the table to make room for tea.

Finally, he looked up. “Yes. Good day, then.” He nodded to Mrs. Hudson and left, shutting the door behind him. They listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh dear,” muttered Mrs. Hudson. “You shouldn’t have been so terse with him, Sherlock. He’s only-“

“He’ll never be satisfied until he has me chained to a desk somewhere, filling out paperwork,” said Sherlock. He climbed back into the grey chair, curiously delicate. John spared a glance to the window, but he couldn’t see the street from here. He wondered where Mycroft was headed next. Off to bother somebody else, he told himself.

“Now, where were we?” said Sherlock. “Ah yes. The ear.”


	8. Chapter 8

No disguise today. Sherlock’s heart was in his throat and his clammy palms were buried deep in his pockets. He and John were strolling as quickly as John’s leg would allow. 

“So, I take it,” John said. His breathing was becoming labored and Sherlock slowed down. Slightly. Not too much, not nearly as much as he wanted, but he never would have slowed down at all before, not with the case on, and if he could _act_ like himself, perhaps- “I take it this ‘Liberty’ person can confirm your ear theory? Is Liberty her real name?”

“It’s not a theory, and no,” said Sherlock Holmes, the one who could shave and dress himself.

As John was about to speak, his cane caught a crack in the pavement and he lurched awkwardly. Sherlock resisted the urge to steady him, only just. He resisted the urge to hide inside John’s jacket and beg to be taken home.

“’No’ she can’t confirm it or ‘no’ that’s not her name?”

“First of all it’s not a theory and therefore does not need confirming, and second of all-“ Second of all, what? Sherlock Holmes’s self-righteous outrage dissipated at his pathetic misuse of clichéd phraseology. “No, that’s not her real name.”

“Oh,” said John.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tersely began: "As a medical man, you are aware, John, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all others.” That was much better. Stick with facts. Information was neutral, safe. “I perceived that ear of one of my captors corresponded exactly with that of Lucretia DeMartinez, though I didn’t recall it until Mrs. Hudson so fortuitously jogged my memory. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.” Sherlock paused. Then, in a voice that was more of a mutter than he would have liked, he added, “I’ve written monographs upon the subject. They’re on my website.”

John chuckled. “Fantastic,” he said simply. “You are fantastic.” Sherlock’s heart clenched and he scanned John’s face for any hint of jest, but John was merely smiling softly. His right shoulder curled forward each time he braced against the cane, compounding his discomfort. Sherlock would fix that limp again, somehow.

They approached the restaurant where Liberty worked, circling around to the kitchen entrance. Mycroft’s men were tailing them at an extremely discrete distance: enough to be comforting (for John, of course,) but not so close they would spook Sherlock’s contact. Liberty Hart had a keen eye when she needed it and was wary of strange men who loitered about doing covert work for the government. She came out soon enough, rubbish bags in both hands and cigarettes perched in the small breast pocket of her shirt.

Sherlock had intended to approach her frankly, to take control of the conversation, find out what he needed, and move on. Instead, he balked, voice frozen in his throat. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of John and Mrs. Hudson in nearly two weeks.

Liberty ground to a halt when she saw Sherlock, then eyed John warily. John raised the lid of the skip for her and after a cautious pause she heaved the bags in. She pulled out her pack of cigarettes but then only held them tightly in her hand.

“What do you want?” Her Polish accent was thick despite having lived several years in London. She drew her arms tightly around her waist, thin shoulders hunched against the chill in the air. Her jacket wasn’t enough to keep out the encroaching cold.

“DeMartinez,” Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. He forced himself to stand taller, as he would have before. 

Liberty shook her head and looked at the pavement. It was littered with butts all stained with her pale pink lipstick. “I don’t know anything.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. They stood in silence for a while. Sherlock clawed desperately for some hint of how to proceed. There was the clanking of pans, deep voices drifting from out of the kitchen. Liberty’s cuffs were frayed where she habitually, anxiously clutched them to her palms. The alley smelled of stale cooking oil and refuse. A month ago Sherlock could have simply bullied the information out of her, and would have. Now, it took six minutes and thirty seven seconds to cross the threshold from 221 out onto Baker Street. It took three minutes to force himself to the curb in order to flag down a cab. He’d had to whisper the address to John, stifling such pointless, pathetic panic, just so they could continue to pursue the case. He wasn’t fantastic. John had utterly no reason to think that anymore. 

Sherlock took a steadying breath. He slid his hands into his pockets and changed gears. He could still do this. He dropped back a pace and channeled Eleanor. Eleanor cared about people like Liberty, and perhaps Liberty would respond to that. Sherlock curled his back slightly: smaller, less threatening. He craned an ear forward, tilting his head.

It took time, and when Liberty spoke, her voice was low. “All I know is that they were in some kind of trouble with Martin Clarice.” She glanced at the door to the kitchen, then at John. Her cigarettes were crumpled in her grip. “If you want to know more, talk to Sticky.” She turned and hurried back into the kitchen. Sherlock let her go. He shouldn’t have, but he did, with nothing but relief flooding his body and turning his joints to jelly. He did his best to mask this with a brisk stride back towards the street. _Fantastic. You are fantastic._ Sherlock could still be that person. He drew his mobile from his pocket and with shaking hands fired off several texts. He could do this.

“Hang on,” John huffed. That pitiful thing inside Sherlock longed to turn to him, to steady himself on John’s shoulders and breath in the comforting scent of his hair. How long could John be expected to tolerate such a clinging, cringing creature? He wasn’t like that. Sherlock wasn’t like that, he was stronger than that. He slowed down the appropriate amount, keeping a shoulder to John. Everything was fine. 

“Where are we headed?”

Sherlock reached the curb and scanned the street for a cab. He needed to focus, that was all. He could do this. 

“Who’s this Clarice person? Oi.”

Sherlock’s mobile alerted him to an incoming text. He checked it swiftly, confirming Sticky’s whereabouts, then returned it to his pocket. “Distributor,” he said. 

“What?”

“Martin Clarice. Drug distributor.” Sherlock was intimately acquainted with his patterns and habits, for various reasons, none of which John needed to know about right now or ever. 

“You think he’s got something to do with it?”

Sherlock spied a cab and stepped assertively into the street to hail it.

“What about this ‘Sticky’ character? Is he - ”

With a quivering feeling, Sherlock snapped. “In order to know what I need to know, it’s important that I know the people who will know the things that I need to know. Does that make sense to you?” He glared at John as the cab pulled up. _Please stop, John. Just stop. Please._ John was blessedly silent. 

More confidently than he felt, Sherlock leaned down to the window. “Horton Bridal, on Lever street,” he told the cabbie, and ushered John into the back, closing the door behind them. Fine. Good. Fine.

Some of these things – if John knew about them– if he knew about these things, he would be so disappointed. Not just now – Sherlock, the way he was now – he could fix that. He could become better, he could be like he’d been before. If John knew about all the ways, the stupid, idiotic, weak, and needy things he’d done – 

He knew he had wounded John: it was written in the lines of his face; the way he angled his head away. But it was better if he didn’t know. Better that than he discover that Sherlock wasn’t worth the trouble and never had been. 

Sherlock forced his thoughts back to the case. If he could solve the case, John would forget about that. He would forget about how wretched and feeble Sherlock had become. He would think he was spectacular. _Fantastic._

Facts. He needed facts. Sherlock rifled through the facts of the case, staring blindly out of the window. He could do this. He could.

 

They found Ivan Rosicky smoking a cigarette with several young men his age, on the steps outside the bridal shop. His narrow cut suit fit more poorly than ever. He cursed when Sherlock climbed out of the cab, then sent his friends around the corner. 

“What the fuck do you want?” he said.

Sherlock played his hand in a single breath, counterfeiting impatience. “Information, as always, Sticky, and I _am_ in a rush, so if you tell me why DeMartinez was in trouble with Clarice, I’ll give you a hundred pounds and I won’t report the details of the burglaries in which you’ve obviously recently taken part.” Sherlock held his ground, conscious of John’s reassuring warmth at his shoulder. (This, despite his churlishness, despite his history, in spite of everything. _Why?_ ) 

Rosicky took a long, critical drag on his cigarette.

“Two hundred.”

( _Because I love you._ )

“Done.”

( _Because I love you,_ John would say, and tell him about the insects in Afghanistan. _I love you, Sherlock, okay?_ )

Rosicky dropped the butt on the pavement and ground it beneath his toe. He slipped his hands into his pockets while Sherlock counted out the notes discreetly. 

( _It’s going to be all right._ 18 stone. Inveterate gambler. The man clutched his neck and dropped to his knees.)

Rosicky took the money, craning his neck to peer into the shop. His thin reddish hair stuck up in tufts. “You know how it is with these men, mate.” He dug into his pockets and retrieved another cigarette, mumbling around it as he fumbled with a faulty lighter. “Owed him money, simple as that. Owed us too, the bastard.” He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Family’s worth fuck-all since Lucretia went away. She was the only one with any sense.” 

(Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. He struggled beneath Sherlock and then was still. _I love you, Sherlock, okay?_ )

“What did he owe him for?”

“This and that. Clarice did him a few favors, did him a few more. Wasn’t a problem until the drug trade blew up a few weeks back, then Eduardo couldn’t make his payments, could he. Had no business getting involved in that anyway. Should have stuck to slots and sluts.”

( _Are you still there?_ John’s voice turning dry and dim. Yes. Yes, I’m here. Drone of the helicopter. Golf-green carpet, stained with blood.)

“What happened to the drug trade?”

Rosicky eyed him incredulously. “Where’ve you been, mate? There’s no drugs in London since the raid on the docks in the summer. What’s here is coming in through fucking Ipswich.”

( _They were this iridescent green and...and magenta, or something. I never saw them again. We went there every year._ )

“How did he intend to pay his debts?”

( _It had blown in all these little fish._ )

Rosicky shrugged. “Dad said he took up a bit of a side-job, enough to make up the difference. Supposed to have had it by the end of August. Obviously that didn’t happen, did it.”

Sherlock’s stomach began to sour. He could feel John standing steadily at his shoulder. 

( _I love you, okay? It’s going to be all right._ )

“What sort of job?”

(John, please -)

“Dunno. Think Lucretia hooked him up with it.”

“Who was it,” Sherlock demanded.

“Who was what?”

(Helicopter, fading to a distant hum. Blood-soaked, golf-green carpet. _It’s going to be all right._ )

“Who hired him?” (Shortened pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe -)

Rosicky sucked on his cigarette as he tilted his head to examine the sky. Sherlock wanted to throttle that mottled neck to shake out answers, and at the same time longed to escape to the cab. He found himself hunching his shoulders and commanded, pleaded with himself to stand up straight. Just get the information and go home. It was fine. They were fine. It was going to be all right.

( _I love you, Sherlock, okay?_ )

Rosicky exhaled a long, leisurely plume of smoke. “Bloke by the name of Merchant,” he finally said. “Daniel.” 

“Who is that?”

Rosicky shook his head. “Dunno. Just know Eduardo had something in the works so he and Dad could stay friendly, as it were. He’s some sort of big-wig banker or something. Figured he’d be good for it.”

Sherlock’s voice was strangled when he found it. “What sort of work?”

( _They were this iridescent green. We went there every year._ )

“I told you I don’t know. Obviously bloody fucking dangerous work seeing as he’s dead. From what I hear Merchant’s absolutely fucking livid. _We’re_ none too pleased.”

“What happened?”

“Sherlock,” John said. Shut up, John. Please shut up. ( _Are you still there?_ ) He could do this. He could be that person.

“Obviously everyone got bloody well fucking murdered, didn’t they? You been on fucking holiday? Merchant’s been on a tear since his little bookkeeper had her neck snapped by some psycho–“

Sherlock raked in a breath and whirled away, back towards the waiting cab. Blood pounded in his ears and he staggered.

“Thank you, um, Sticky, was it?” John was saying.

Sherlock leaned against the cab, cradling his phone, his chest constricting fiercely. 

_Daniel Merchant, London, Finance._ Search.

There it was: D.N. Merchant Company, Inc. Website. Commercial real estate and development. 

Directors: Daniel Merchant, CEO. Caucasian, 62-65, liver condition, medicated. 

Jim Gaffner: CFO. Irrelevant. 

Jack Durburg: irrelevant. 

Arlin Groch: irrelevant. 

Francesca Jarvis: Delicate. Blonde. ( _I want you to eat your breakfast._ ) 

Deep blue eyes. Investment Officer. Sherlock breathed steadily in and out. 

( _You understand the situation, don’t you?_ )

Facebook. Sunset, ocean, sailboat. _Gorgeous sunset this evening! Tenerife is absolutely breathtaking!_ August 27, 7:08pm via mobile. (Wrong.)

Mountain. Sky. Stone. _Hiked Montana Blanca today. What a view!_ August 25, 4:47pm via mobile. (Wrong.)

 _Francesca Jarvis added five new photos to the album Tenerife 2011._ Blue eyes, straight teeth, delicate-

( _You understand the situation, don’t you?_ No. No. No. No. No.)

 _See you all in September!_ August 10, 11:10am via mobile. 

Wrong. 

Wrong. 

Wrong.

“Come on. There we go.” John bundled him into the cab.

(She stroked his hair. She held him in her lap while he cried. _You’re almost there. You still have time._ Cup his face in her hand. _You can do this._ )

( _Are you still there?_ )

( _It’s going to be all right. I love you, Sherlock, okay?_ )

“Baker Street,” he heard John say.

 

 

John followed Sherlock up to the flat, hanging heavily on the banister to favor his leg. Inside, Sherlock climbed onto the far side of the sofa and drew his knees up. He’d been silent during the cab ride back, white lipped and shaking like a leaf. He’d had his mobile clutched to his chest, and when John had finally prised it from him, he’d found the profile of a strange woman, Francesca Jarvis. Thumbing back through the web history, he’d been able to connect the dots.

Sherlock’s arms were folded tightly around him: ensconced in the the dense fabric of his coat. He stared towards the window as John looked helplessly on.

Stifling a sigh, John hung his jacket and leaned his cane beside the door. If he made tea, he knew neither of them would drink it. He thought about trying to coax Sherlock into possibly eating something, but that wouldn’t happen unless John ate something as well, and the thought of eating right now...

John turned towards the kitchen and ran a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his mouth. He looked at the piles of paper and scrapbooks and files that had taken over their kitchen table. He didn’t know if they could give up the case. He knew they should. He knew they had pushed it too far today. He knew Sherlock would never allow himself to back off of this one, though, _this_ one in particular, because it was his bloody fucking _autonomy_ that was at stake, and Sherlock didn’t value anything higher – not even his brain – he didn’t value anything higher than that. It was crushing to see him struggle like this.

Three days ago John had found him in the toilet, crouched on the floor with John’s electric shaver clutched between both hands. It was the same when he brushed his teeth. Their mirror was turned perpetually towards the wall so Sherlock didn’t have to look at himself in the brief moments he rose to rinse his mouth or put the shaver away. That woman – Francesca – had done that to him. _That,_ to Sherlock Holmes. And John didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know if he could.

John turned around, lingering in the doorway as he watched his friend. Sherlock’s face remained rigidly set. John crossed the living room and sat gingerly beside him. He wanted desperately to know what he was thinking, and at the same time didn’t think that he could bear to know. He brushed his knuckles down Sherlock’s sleeve. He brushed Sherlock’s hair from the side of his face, and Sherlock jerked away.

“Get away from me,” he snarled. John snatched his hand back, and an ugly silence stretched between them. Sherlock glared at him savagely. 

Fear and bewilderment curdled in John’s chest. Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver, and John found himself shakily rising to his feet. _Please don't mean that, Sherlock. Please._

Sherlock was cold and utterly silent. John retreated. First to the hall. Then up the stairs. Then into his bedroom. He closed the door.

 

  
Mycroft sat in the back of the car, reviewing the message from his security team. Meredith was seated beside him, thumbing through her blackberry. Last night Mycroft had been called in to consult on a delicate situation arising in South America. Unable to dedicate the time necessary to ponder out the more esoteric of Jim’s clues, Mycroft had handed off them off to his assistant in hopes that a second set of eyes would prove illuminating. 

Sherlock and John were in Hammersmith, his reports read. Heedlessly, selfishly endangering themselves in spite of Mycroft’s efforts. They couldn’t be let to continue. He would have to have a firmer word with them tomorrow, though with Dr. Watson having cast his lot in with Sherlock, it would be considerately more difficult to bring his willful brother to heel. Mycroft tongued his far left molar. He was due at the dentist at the end of the month.

“Hello, Clarice,” said Meredith, suddenly. One side of her mouth quirked into a smile.

“I beg your pardon?”

She ignored him for a moment, then held the mobile out casually, caged between her fingers. A low, cultured, and sinister voice began to speak.

_“Is this Clarice? Well hello, Clarice... I have been in a state of hibernation. I need some action, Clarice. I need to come out of retirement and return to public life. I couldn't help noticing on the FBI's rather dull public website that I have been elevated to the more prestigious Ten Most Wanted list. Is this coincidence or are you back on the case? If so, goody, goody.”_

The sound clip ended, and Mycroft watched his assistant expectantly.

“Hannibal Lecter,” she explained, and consulted her blackberry again. “Fictional character in a series of horror novels by Thomas Harris and in the films adapted from them. The phrase ‘Hello Clarice’ is among the most misquoted in film and does not appear, as many believe, in Jonathan Demme’s critically acclaimed _The Silence of the Lambs_ , but does appear in the sequel in this particular passage only.”

Mycroft sighed. Jim had said this one was obvious: the salient information – Hello Clarice - omitted for the sole purpose of emphasizing it upon discovery.

Martin Clarice was a recognized but unaccused and presently unconvictable drug distributor who controlled a sizeable portion of the London market. When Sherlock had disrupted the government control of the arms trade, he had simultaneously and inadvertently interfered with the drug traffic. Somehow, Camille’s man Caplan had been involved in this, though obviously his death precluded his involvement in Sherlock’s abduction. When confronted, Camille had refused to surrender a name, so someone under her protection was still involved.

The debacle at the docks would have upset Martin Clarice’s business considerably, but according to Jim’s information, he appeared to be looking on the sunny side. No supply and high demand furnished an excellent opportunity for growth.

_Teach a man to fish, and he will eat for life._

Looking to edge out his competition, Clarice would do well to dominate the market from within. Sherlock’s chemical expertise as well as his flair for innovation would come in very handy, were this the objective. It would also neatly avenge him for the havoc wreaked upon his business.

They pulled up outside of the building where Jim was being kept. The sky had once again clouded over, and looked likely to rain.

If Sherlock continued to run amok the way he so stubbornly insisted, he put himself in increasing danger, not only from Clarice, but from whoever pursued him from within MI5. Mycroft expected a phone call from Camille within the next 48 hours insisting that he yet again rein in his unruly, impetuous, insolent brother. The selfish thing! Couldn’t he see it would be better for everyone involved-

Mycroft took a measured breath. It would be the height of foolishness to face Jim Moriarty while he was this riled. He would press the issue with John tomorrow - alone - and convince him to see reason. 

The lift cruised to a stop and the doors opened. Mycroft strode down the carpeted hall.

John was concerned for Sherlock’s mental health. That was honorable and worthy of respect. That his concern manifested in the most brazenly foolish way possible could only be expected, given his history with Sherlock. Mycroft had grown fond of John, but this didn’t blind him to the man’s frankly enabling nature where Sherlock was concerned. 

Mycroft brushed purely imaginary dust from his sleeves, straightened his jacket, and paused. He closed his eyes briefly and released an unexpectedly unsteady breath. He would set this to rights and then retreat to the background of his brother’s life once again, emerging only to clean up after his latest disaster. That had always been his role in Sherlock’s life. He’d once been Sherlock’s friend as well; his teacher, his mentor, and protector. Those days were a long time gone. Mycroft unlocked the door to Jim’s flat and entered.

Jim was in the kitchenette, preparing tea. “Just a moment,” he sang. He was thrumming with energy today. Two of his precious tea bags were set in plastic mugs next to a plate of the thin digestive biscuits with which the flat had been stocked. Mycroft appraised his surroundings, noting the expanded murals and the way the sponges had afforded Jim greater precision and tonal control. Yesterday’s broad shapes had filled into more scenes from the New Testament: Mary Magdalene, both at the crucifixion and anointing Christ’s feet with oil. The deft shape of her shoulders as she knelt – Jim truly had extraordinary talent. The thought made Mycroft endlessly weary. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine at the base of his skull and he made a mental note to have Meredith refill his prescriptions. Jim was whistling _La Vie en Rose._ That had been a favorite of their father’s, though there was no way for Jim to have known that. Mycroft recalled having been allowed to delicately set the stylus to the recording, ever so careful not to scratch. He remembered the velvety quiet before the song began.

Jim entered with the tea and set the mugs on the table, still whistling. Mycroft turned to look at him. “Such a tragic waste,” he said. Jim’s expression closed off immediately and he watched Mycroft with solemnity in his dark eyes. With a small sigh, Mycroft approached and took his seat. He took the tin from his pocket and set Jim’s daily pill before him, then dutifully lined up the next five. His afternoons with Dr. Watson had been the first in many, many years he had simply shared tea with someone, without manipulating or maneuvering around them. They were likely the last as well. He’d enjoyed them, though.

Jim took his pill with his tea, and they sat quietly for a time. Mycroft took up his plastic mug and felt its warmth seep into his hands.

“When I was nine, there was a boy,” Jim said. “I was living with my grandmother in Brighton.” There was another long pause as Jim gazed absently at the table. “The doctors were still experimenting with dosage. I was on Lorazepam, then Tiagabine, Ethosuximide. They hadn’t hadn’t figured out what worked. When I was nine, there was a boy. Who laughed at me.” He looked Mycroft in the eye. “A man like you doesn’t understand what helplessness feels like. Mycroft. But I stopped him laughing. And then, after that, I never felt helpless again.”

Another long silence descended. A police siren wailed on the street below, only just audible in the soundproofed room.

“You’re making good progress, I trust,” Jim said. Mycroft didn’t bother to answer.

“Sherlock as well. I imagine he’s making progress. In his recovery, of course.”

Mycroft was sick to death of talking about Sherlock. He couldn’t be sure he had kept that thought from his expression just now. It was like a physical weight on his shoulders, and he longed simply to _speak of something else._ Those afternoons; he and John had exchanged stories that had nothing to do with Sherlock, his head-strong, impulsive, worrying brother who seemed determined to ignore all measures taken for his own safety, who was adamantly independent in all the most dangerous and self-destructive ways. Mycroft was sick of it, and he was tired. He had been counting on John to see reason. He had thought John would be sensible. That he had sided with Sherlock over a matter of physical safety when such an obvious and agreeable solution was available – it had come like a betrayal. Mycroft pushed these thoughts from his mind.

“Everything used to be so boring,” Jim sighed. “Modesty aside, I’m really quite good at what I do. But when you’re as good as I am, it gets lonely, and it gets dull. Sherlock was such a splash of color, it was thrilling. It was finally having a peer, an adversary. I imagine you felt that way too, Mycroft, once. Before you realized you would spend the rest of your life chasing after him. Protecting him from himself, or people like me. Although, that’s really one and the same, isn’t it.

“I could tell you who it was, and you could kill me right now. But do you honestly think that would solve your problem?”

“It would certainly solve one of many,” Mycroft said with unfeigned impatience. Everything Jim had said was true. The young man cautiously sipped his tea, blowing across the top to cool it.

“We’re so alike, he and I, we really are. But he needs direction. He’s so unfocused, so easy to toy with. I love making him dance, seeing how far he’ll go. He and I would be so fabulous together, don’t you agree? We could rule the world.” Jim paused and shrugged with his habitual flair. “But then again, I already do. And it’s a pity, but I always break my toys.”

Mycroft carefully unclenched his teeth and said, “And yet you seem perfectly willing to allow someone else to break him, and so intimately. One would think that, having had full knowledge of the situation as you did, you wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to pass.”

Jim drew very still and his gaze grew vacant. Then he seemed to flip a switch, and he fixed his face in a grim facsimile of a smile. He set his tea down on the table, and at the last moment his hand trembled so violently he nearly upset the mug. His face was sick and pallid as he reached across the table and pushed one pill towards Mycroft. The rest he swept into his palm.

“I didn’t,” he hissed, his breath unsteady. “We’ve come to know each other quite well, haven’t we, Mycroft? Do you really think that I would have overlooked a helicopter?”

Mycroft’s blood went cold.

Through his pallor and fear, Jim’s expression turned vicious. “Sherlock Holmes is mine,” he said. His fist clenched around the tablets in his palm. “I promised him, and I promise you, Mr. Holmes, that I will burn the _heart_ out of him.” He held Mycroft’s eye defiantly. Mycroft picked up the remaining pill and returned it to the tin.

“Be seeing you,” Jim said. Mycroft gathered his umbrella and left.


	9. Chapter 9

John had had a friend - in Afghanistan he’d had a friend named Dennis Burrows, another medic, they’d been deployed together. Dennis had been born with the last two fingers missing on his right hand, and he’d joked that it had been less fingers to get in the way of stitching people back together. He’d been a good man, calm under fire, competent, steady. He’d taken a load of shrapnel to the back and been sent home just a few weeks before John. He’d bled a lot, but then, everyone did, didn’t they. John had bled a lot. A staggering amount, it had seemed, but it’s different when it’s your own blood.

Dennis had been born with two fingers missing, and that’s how John had recognized him sitting outside Costa, unwashed, staring into traffic. They’d been on a case – this was months ago, nearly a year, perhaps even more – and they’d grabbed a cup of coffee, and then on the way out John had stopped and done a double take. “Dennis,” he’d said.

It had been spring, so more than a year, then. The air had still been damp and cold; nippy. Dennis had looked up at John and smiled, the same slow smile. Genuine. Dennis had been a genuine person. John had liked him. He’d offered to buy him a cup of coffee, confused. 

“It’s alright, John, don’t worry about it.”

That’s what he’d said, and John had stood there for a moment. Sherlock was already striding away. John had said “Why don’t we grab lunch somewhere,” and the smile had slipped from Dennis’s face and his gaze had shifted back to the traffic. “Don’t worry about it.” And then John had left. He’d jogged to catch up with Sherlock, glancing back just once.

For a while John took to passing that Costa several times a week. Dennis never really spoke to him – Sherlock said that one never spoke to anyone – but John popped by just to make sure that he was still there. It didn’t do any good, it was just to make sure he was still there, and then one week he wasn’t.

Sherlock had said Dennis lived alone in a bedsit in Acton and had recently stopped paying his electric, although it was clear from the quality and wear of his shoes that his pension was more than enough to cover it. One week he just wasn’t there anymore, and after a while John forgot to look. He’d thought about tracking down Dennis’s family but he’d never got round to it. He hadn’t bothered.

John sat on his bed, watching as the sunlight crept across the floor, bent up along the wall, dimmer and dimmer until it disappeared. Sherlock’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. A sharp rap, and the door opened. Sherlock looked at him for a long, quiet moment.

“Come,” he said, and turned back down the stairs. John pressed his feet against the floor. He stood and felt the weight of his body. He heard Sherlock heading out the front door. He followed.

 

  
Mycroft had just had time to finish dinner before he received the call. Now he was in the car with his mobile pressed to one ear, shaking his last naproxen into his palm. He twisted the cap from a Perrier, swallowed the pill, and clenched his eyes shut.

“6pm,” Meredith was saying. “Several points along the Thames; our agents have been safely extracted. They’ll be entering protective custody.”

God damn it.

“Eight dead at the pier, currently unidentified.”

MI5 had been organizing a raid that would have taken Clarice out of the game entirely. Mycroft had been made aware of this only moments ago, which was worrying on several levels, but on top of that, news had been leaked and Clarice had launched an inexplicable full scale attack against the Russians. 

_There can only be one._

The heat in the car was turned up too high. The dry air scraped his sinuses and Mycroft fought the irrational urge to fire the driver, effective immediately. He could hear Meredith clattering away on her keyboard over the phone.

The car accelerated, and if they made a right they could pay a visit to Mr. Moriarty, speculum and forceps at the ready. Mycroft would lose the game, of course. Moriarty had chosen his four tablets. If Mycroft approached him now, it would mean automatic forfeiture. 

Jim had consulted on Sherlock’s abduction: he’d arranged the location, he’d arranged the terms, he’d orchestrated the telephone because he’d known about the helicopter. He’d known about the helicopter, which meant he’d intended Sherlock to make the connection, he’d intended Sherlock to choose violence.

Moriarty would never have surrendered Sherlock to Clarice for any purpose, so the question remained; what did Moriarty stand to gain from all of this? Mycroft realized he was grinding his molars and he relaxed his jaw, stretching it with an audible crack.

“Sir,” Meredith said. “I have the transcription from 221C, directly before you arrived yesterday. ‘Lucretia DeMartinez, obvious, the grease, John, the grease beneath his fingernails – ‘” Meredith paused as though skimming ahead. “’She was put away in July of ’07 and I knew I’d seen those ears somewhere before.’ He didn’t elaborate while at home, but he did repeat ‘the ear.’”

The grease beneath – ah, the second man, the gambler, had had grease beneath his fingernails. As for the ear: it must have been a relative. 

“I need all information on DeMartinez’s correspondence while in prison. This includes anyone who has been released during her sentence,” Mycroft said. “And I’ll need to speak with my brother at the next available moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Last week Lucretia DeMartinez – a bit player as far as anyone was concerned – had surrendered sufficient information to apprehend Martin Clarice and had agreed to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence. This could be interpreted as revenge for her brother’s death, but it also conveniently timed her release to coincide with the mutual destruction of two of the most powerful crime families in London. Let Clarice handle the tiresome job of breaking Sherlock only to snatch him away at the last moment? This was improbable at best, insofar as Lucretia herself was concerned. She would have acted at someone else’s behest.

Sherlock’s abduction had been sanctioned by MI5, and MI5 had negotiated the terms of Lucretia’s release. It now appeared that erroneous information regarding the raid had been transmitted to Clarice with the intention of turning him against the Russians. Lucretia was clearly nothing more than a pawn: this had Jim’s tea-stained fingerprints all over it.

Jim, however, had had no contact with the outside world in over two weeks. Sherlock could very easily be pushed past the breaking point if Clarice were to get to him now. There would be no coming back from it. 

Sherlock needed someone to watch over him. Until recently this task had always been Mycroft’s – from his scrapes at school, his desperate and failed attempts to fit in. Sherlock loved to be loved. John Watson had been a godsend, but he didn’t have Mycroft’s power or resources. He couldn’t keep Sherlock safe, and would do well to remember that. No one could do as much for Sherlock as Mycroft.

 

In her private office, Camille was seated behind a mahogany desk, her hair pulled severely behind her. There was a cacophony of ringing phones and urgent voices in the outer office. Among them was the one Mycroft pursued: whoever had worked in conjunction with Moriarty, Clarice, or both to bring Sherlock to heel, and for something so petty and base as narcotics. Sherlock was a finely tuned and delicate instrument. He had no place in that world, no matter how he liked to hobnob with the dregs of society.

Camille’s glasses reflected the white-blue glow of her computer monitor. She glanced at Mycroft as he entered and said simply, “Good.”

Mycroft set his umbrella beside the door and took a seat. “My assistant is compiling files on anyone who has interacted with DeMartinez both in and out of prison, but it’s highly unlikely that she organized the deception. News of the raid would have reached Clarice by way of a trusted confidante, and someone who believed himself safe from harm in the resulting skirmish. I’m afraid it’s quite clear you have a breach in security,” Mycroft concluded.

Camille scrutinized him closely. It was a weighty accusation. After a long moment she said, “Fine. I’ll compile the list of possibles myself.” Again she eyed him closely, and Mycroft was made suddenly and distinctly aware that he had not been summoned for quite the reason he had supposed. He remained still and dispassionate.

“In this situation,” Camille continued, “I would generally consult with someone closer to the heart of the matter. Unfortunately this contact has been missing in action for some time. Two weeks, to give you an idea.” Her expression hardened almost imperceptibly. “If you know the whereabouts of Mr. Moriarty, I suggest you divulge that information immediately, Mycroft.”

Mycroft maintained his demeanor, though his stomach clenched painfully. “I’m quite sure I have no idea.” Impossible – no, merely highly improbable and extremely _stupid_ that Camille should have opened her doors to the man -

“We have several courses of action before us. Without Moriarty’s intelligence, our position in severely compromised. I’m willing to tolerate your personal pursuits insofar as they’re kept separate from the concerns of MI5, but at present we’re in a state of emergency, and I need him back.”

Mycroft should have seen this coming. Stupid! Of course Moriarty would have made himself indispensable. Hadn’t Mycroft done the same? 

“That is troubling,” Mycroft hedged. “If I could remedy the situation I would do everything in my power, but I’m afraid your suspicion is misguided.”

“Is it,” Camille said dryly. “On another matter, it’s been brought to my attention that your brother is back on the loose. Is this something I should be concerned about, or have I been misguided in this as well?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but bristle. “I wasn’t aware that he was interfering with anything of yours. Secrets are so tightly kept these days – with the obvious, present exception, of course.” He tilted his head to acknowledge the mounting chaos just outside the door.

Camille pinched the bridge of her nose, rucking her spectacles up towards her hairline. For the first time in the long years he’d known her, Mycroft sensed the true scope of her burden. She breathed in deeply and sighed. 

“I know there was word of a position being created for him here. I won’t deny that I find the prospect both troubling and appealing, Mycroft.” She paused. “Get him off the street, see that he accepts and he’ll have my personal protection, but I don’t have the time or the patience for any more of this horseshit - from you, from him, or from anyone else. Are we clear?”

“Exceedingly.”

“Good. Get out of here.”

Sherlock was facing increasing danger from all sides. Mycroft was doing everything he could, but how could he be expected – Mycroft squashed this mounting anxiety. Exiting Camille's office, he retrieved his mobile from his pocket, noticing several missed texts. He scrolled through them and his body grew cold with horror. Ignoring the rest of the messages, he dialed the head of the security team at 221. 

“Find him immediately,” he barked. 

In the office, phones rang and agents scurried as calamity spread through the underworld like wildfire. Mycroft pocketed his mobile and carefully straightened his jacket. A decision made with the heat of emotion was a decision made in error. The roiling confusion around him could not be let to penetrate his composure.

 

 

  
Sherlock breathed stiffly through his nose. Dodging Mycroft’s security had been the easy part. He leaned one shoulder against the wall and tilted his ear to the door. Two low voices inside – his informant had been correct so far.

Sherlock’s breath picked up and he closed his eyes tightly for a moment. John was downstairs – outside, on the corner. Sherlock had left him there to keep watch on an irrelevant building, waiting to spot someone who didn’t exist. He would be angry, but he would forgive Sherlock after this. He would forgive him because this was going to solve everything. Sherlock would do this and he would win. This would work. Sherlock reached for the plastic bulk of the gun at his back – a prop. Sherlock was good at acting, at masks and props. Phenomenal. He dried his palms on his trousers.

Sherlock had left John standing wide out in the open. He was alone and unprotected. Sherlock had left him there, afraid. He’d seen the way John’s teeth had pressed together, heard his voice clutch in his throat. Of course he’d seen; Sherlock saw everything. That was what he did. That was who he was. John was going to be very, very angry. Sherlock swallowed this down.

He took his mobile from his pocket and fumbled with the mic jack, biting back a curse as it skittered around the rim of the hole, refusing to align. He braced his trembling fingers against the case and guided in the jack. He drew back several paces and called John.

“Don’t say a word. Press four on the number pad.” Sherlock had downloaded an app onto John’s phone. His was the more secure at the moment, and only incoming calls could be recorded. “Did you do it?”

“Yes –“

“Good. I need you to remain absolutely silent. I’m outside suite 317.”

“Sherlock, please –“

Sherlock locked the keypad and dropped the phone into his pocket, clipping the mic inside; enough to pick up sound, but invisible to the outside eye. He was good at this. He would be fine. It would be just like – it would be like before. John would be angry, but just for a short while. It was fine.

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together at his lips, eyes riveted on the door. He took two quick breaths. He was good at this. Sherlock Holmes was good at this. He drew his prop from his waistband and charged the door.

It was locked.

Sherlock rattled the handle like an idiot and felt a cold, fearful doubt turn over in his stomach. Bad idea, not good, find John – no. Sherlock tensed and rapped the butt of the gun against the door.

“Open up,” he demanded, pounding the door again. “It’s time to settle this, Merchant.” That would work. Sherlock felt a familiar thrill run through him. The door opened and Sherlock heaved his weight against it. It slammed against the wall and Sherlock brandished his prop, first at Daniel Merchant, then wheeled around to face the second man standing at the doorway: weathered, competent, married, scarred: a professional. He made no move as Sherlock trained the gun on Merchant, who raised both hands in the air.

“Do you know who I am?” Sherlock demanded. Merchant shook his head. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. The name should ring a bell.” At this, the man’s eyes narrowed.

“As a matter of fact, it does.” He nodded over Sherlock’s shoulder to the man beside the door. Sherlock pivoted wildly, trapped between the two men. 

The second man closed the door and Sherlock felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face. He noticed how erratic his breathing had become. John was just outside. It was fine. Everything was fine. The man at the door stepped in smoothly and cracked an elbow to the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock staggered but the man held onto him, spinning him as he fell to his knees and delivering another punishing blow to the side of his face. Sherlock went down and lay dazed on the floor, his vision swimming. Where was – he hadn’t landed on his mobile.

The two men stood over him for a moment. He could sense them dimly in the periphery of his vision. They could hurt him. He was extremely vulnerable like this, but that was okay. It was okay. It was not okay. Sherlock curled his knees in slightly and couldn’t stifle a small, fearful noise as he was heaved to his feet and maneuvered into a chair. He closed his eyes. He tried to breathe. He said, “MI5 will be here any moment.” He glared at the blurry, swimming figures. The second man had Sherlock’s gun and he clicked the trigger, watching the small flame for a moment.

“I’d know if they were coming here,” said Merchant.

“For one thing,” the other man added, voice gravelly and nonchalant, “If they were coming -” he set the lighter on the desk- “they’d be here instead of you.”

“It’s part of the plan,” Sherlock said weakly. “They have you surrounded.”

“Now the question is,” the man proceeded, “where’s your assistant? I’ve never known him to be too far behind you.”

Sherlock was seized by a sickening tremor. “No,” he pleaded, and choked on the word. “Please.” He was beginning to cry a little bit, and he could feel the panic tight in his chest. “He doesn’t have to be involved in this. He isn’t here, it’s just me.” He began to cry in earnest now; wet, shuddering gasps. “Please leave him out of it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Merchant poured himself a glass of scotch. “I know you will,” he said, and Sherlock knew it was true. He was overpowered, weak, and afraid: Sherlock would do whatever Merchant wanted. He couldn’t even fight that feeling, and it terrified him. Merchant looked at Sherlock critically, curious, as though he were some strange and revolting specimen. He drained his glass and set it down next to the decanter. He approached Sherlock, who cowered.

“You killed someone who was very important to me. Did you know that?”

Gloria. He had killed Gloria. He had snapped her neck. He had felt it in his palm, in his chest. He had killed her. He shook his head.

“You did,” Merchant said. He curled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and tilted his head back. Merchant’s eyes were fierce and cold, a pale blue so different from Gloria’s, from John’s. He tightened his grip and Sherlock’s bladder released, the warmth seeping into his trousers and soaking the chair beneath him. He shivered, shaking pathetically.

“Now you’re going to kill someone very close to you, and then you’re going to fix everything you fucked up, you little shit.” He shook Sherlock’s head and then shoved him away roughly. “Get Donna on the phone.”

The other man took out his mobile.

“I’ve done nothing,” Sherlock cried. “What could I possibly have done? I’m just an amateur.”

Merchant poured himself another glass of scotch. His hand trembled as he stoppered the bottle. The other man spoke in a low voice over the phone. Sherlock was running out of time. He needed to get what he’d come for and get out. John was waiting for him outside. Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair and took several panting breaths. He was good at this. He was. Oh God -

“I did kill her,” he snapped, his voice pathetically shrill, “and you should be thanking me. A little trollop like that – you obviously had feelings for her, unrequited but you didn’t know that, she was quite a talented liar, especially when the stakes were so high, it’s no wonder she was using you.” Lies. All lies. But Merchant would buy it. He had to, please - this had to work. “Ah, it all comes together, doesn’t it – the tan line on her finger: wedding band, recently removed – for you, of course. The American jargon she used to let slip – but not around you. She’d use it with me. You might say I knew her better than anyone. The things you’ll let slip in front of a pet – you should have seen the looks she and Eduardo would shoot at each other, you’d have killed her yourself –“

Merchant caught him with a backhanded slap that knocked him from the chair. Sherlock caught his weight on his elbow, awkwardly wrenching his arm. The mobile –

“I’ll never work for you,” he spat. Merchant was kneeling over him. Again he had Sherlock’s hair fisted in his hand and Sherlock’s breath escaped in a jagged whimper.

“You’ll beg me to let you lick the shit off my shoes. They’ve had your position set up for months.”

“Daniel,” the other man warned.

_They’ve had your position -_

“It won’t work,” Sherlock bluffed. “They’ll never have me.” Who? What did they want with him? Merchant laughed, an ugly bark.

“Won’t have you? They’ve been offering for years. They’ll be thrilled when you finally say yes.”

“Daniel –“

_Finally say yes –_

“So why don’t you take that lauded, perfect memory of yours and remember this, Sherlock Holmes: I. Own. You.”

_Perfect memory. Perfect –_

“Oh,” said Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who had brought down Culverton Smith and Abe Slaney - who had worked out the Blind Banker, the Study in Pink. _Fantastic, John said. I love you, okay?_ There was an enormous crash.

_Perfect memory -_

The door hit the second man and he staggered, wheeling around.

_They’ve been offering for years._

John shouldered through the doorway, heaving the fire extinguisher towards the man’s head. Sherlock curled on his side. There was blood.

_I’d know if they were coming here. If MI5 were coming here, I’d know. Take that perfect memory of yours -_

Daniel Merchant lunged and John swung. There was a sickening snap as the extinguisher collided with his arm, and Merchant reeled sideways into the desk. John swung again.

Memory. Information. Sherlock had interrupted a flow of information from someone within MI5. Within MI5…guns, at the docks, Ernest Caplan, government man.

_Take that perfect memory of yours. They’ve had your position set up for months._

Blood. It smelled like blood. John smelled like blood. He was holding Sherlock and crying.

“Come on, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock tried to uncurl his body, but John smelled like blood.

“Sherlock, get up. We have to get out of here.”

_They’ll be thrilled when you finally say yes._

John dragged Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock numbly got his legs beneath him, leaning on John’s thin, boney shoulders as John led them to the door. John guided him down the corridor, to the lift. He punched the button and the great steel doors yawned before them. John was going to put him into a box. That was okay, if John were there.

John was talking to himself. He said, “Okay, we’ve just got to get out of here, and then we’re going home. We’re getting out of here.” There was a plummeting feeling as the lift descended. John wiped his face on his sleeve.

_They’ll be thrilled when you finally say yes._

John guided him out to the street. There was noise, lights, cars. Sherlock’s trousers were damp and cool. He shivered and clung to John. John hailed a taxi and they climbed inside. The cab pulled into traffic.

“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” John said. His hand shook violently as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He tucked his arms in close around him.

“Most stupid,” Sherlock whispered. He was cold.

“What?”

“That was the most stupid thing I’ve ever done.”

John took Sherlock’s hand. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and buried his nose in his hair. He laughed.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt John’s hand in his and felt the motion of the cab upon the road, smelled blood and the vinyl interior. In August there had been a man killed – Ernest Caplan. He’d been a liaison, passing information from MI5 to someone within Merchant’s operation, and after his death, another had been needed. Sherlock could smuggle out any plan, any diagram, any top secret file with a single glance: all that was missing was his cooperation. One day he’d have laid his head on the desk, nose as close to the speaker as Gloria allowed, listening to the phone simply ring and ring and ring - on that day, they’d have had whatever they wanted.

The city passed in a blur of lights. With tonight’s information, perhaps Mycroft could handle the rest and Sherlock could go to sleep. He’d like to curl up in John’s bed, with the curtains drawn but the windows open so that he could see the wind and smell the air. He would apologize and press his lips to John’s hair. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

The cab cruised to a halt outside 221, and John dug into his pocket and paid the fare. There was blood spattered up the sleeve of his jacket and on his hands: not his. It wasn’t his. John climbed out of the cab and waited as Sherlock slowly followed. They would shower first, and John would make tea. They mounted the steps to the building and the door burst open. John was dragged inside before he could utter a noise protest, and Sherlock tripped backwards down the steps. _No -_

He was seized by two men, and a childish moan of distress escaped him as he tried to twist away. “John –“

A black car pulled up and Sherlock’s voice pitched into a panicked keen. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t. An acrid cloth was pressed over his mouth, and it burned at the back of his throat. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t. Thick hands hustled him into to the back of the car. It was cramped and hot and dark and -

_You understand the situation, don’t you?_

The hands settled him into the car, resting on his neck and telling him to be still. The cloth was removed from his face, and as he sank into unconsciousness, he heard John calling his name.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock clenched his eyes against a searing brightness. The faint buzzing of a headache resolved to pinpoint focus behind his retinas. There was a foul grittiness in his mouth, and the sound of his own breath in his ears; deep, desperate pulls through his nose. He didn’t know where he was.

Sherlock flexed his fingers carefully. He wasn’t bound. He wasn’t hot, or cold, or cramped. He peered out from behind his lashes. It was so bloody fucking bright. He was curled on a bed. The sheets smelled freshly laundered, but not the kind of detergent that John or Mrs. Hudson used. John – John was –

Sherlock ran his fingers against the sheet: smooth and soft and heavy. John wasn’t here. Sherlock was here, but John was not. John was not here. Sherlock curled his hand around his ear. He could hear his heart pumping blood against his eardrums quick and hard. He opened his eyes again and forced them to focus. He was in a room that was bright and bland; eggshell walls and sunlight filtering through frosted windows. He lay beneath a comforter which was navy blue. Sherlock’s breath grew tight in his throat. He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t know where John was and he needed to pee. He laid very still on the bed but no one came.

There was a bathroom off to the left. Sherlock sat up slowly, cautiously. He and John had been at Daniel Merchant’s office, and there had been a lot of blood, the air thick with the choking scent of it.

Sherlock set his feet upon the beige carpet and curled his toes into the pile. _Why don’t you take that perfect memory of yours and -_ Sherlock stood up and steadied himself with a hand against the wall.

The bathroom was plain: clean tile, porcelain, wooden cabinetry. He braced his hands against the sink and swallowed hard. His head swam and his knees buckled, brain fluttering uselessly. He sank to the floor and leaned against the tub. He was alright. His skin felt tight, prickling. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It was – they had caught a cab and John had laughed at something he’d said and his clothes had been wet, but they weren’t wet now, he was wearing different clothes, and they’d been going home and then this was very bad. A small noise escaped him and he remembered hands upon him and John screaming.

They’d been right outside the flat. They’d been – there was a security detail, they should have – No, this made sense. Sherlock knew this made sense.

 _They’ll be thrilled._ That’s what Merchant had said. 

MI5, he’d deduced that much. Merchant had all but said it. Someone desperately wanted him to work for the government, and that’s the only way Mycroft’s security could have been compromised. Sherlock remembered Gloria’s delicate fingertips against his jaw and the bones of John’s spine pressed to his chest and John’s ribcage thin and fragile beneath his hands. He couldn’t do this again. Tears rose hot behind his eyes and he drew his knees in close. He wanted to go home. Whoever this was, he would do what they wanted. He would be good. He would do anything. Sherlock pressed his hands against his eyes.

The front door rattled faintly as the lock clicked open. Sherlock’s stomach twisted and his heart gave a brutal jerk inside his chest. A single set of footsteps transversed the bedroom and paused near the bed. They neared the bathroom and stood in the open doorway.

Brown, impeccably polished leather oxfords.

The tip of a black umbrella.

Sherlock’s breath left him with a nauseating chill.

His hair was damp from having rinsed it in the sink, drying more quickly on the side nearer the fire. He reached for John and his fingers brushed rough blue wool.

“I’ve put in a word with some of my people,” Mycroft was saying. He’d not shut the door behind him, and Sherlock wanted to move closer to him and farther away. He wanted to stay with Mycroft and with John and keep John away from Mycroft, and he closed his fingers into the fabric of John’s jumper.

“I think it advisable to keep your activities a bit closer to home.”

He was probably right. He was usually right. Mycroft was usually right. But they had a case, he and John had a case and it was important, he had to solve this case for John to show him – it was important. He swallowed tightly and found his voice, and as ever, he refused.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, umbrella touched to the tip of his shoe. Sherlock’s pulse buzzed in his ears.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “This is all for the best.” Sherlock began to shake. He remembered the stifling dark and the sour leather on his tongue, and the soft hands and being scared and loved and cared for. His stomach hurt, his throat, his chest –

Mycroft knelt and placed a warm, soft hand on his face.

“You must understand.”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Sherlock bowed his head. The hand caressed his hair, and Sherlock cried and leaned into it helplessly.

 

It could have certainly gone better, Mycroft conceded, but Sherlock would come around eventually. 221B was in its regular state of moderate disarray; empty mugs about, blankets strewn haphazardly over the sofa. John was sitting in his armchair, rigid as in the early days of his recovery, staring towards but not out window. His jaw was set tightly in what would have once been grim resolution, but today was merely a battered man clinging to the remaining scraps of his dignity.

The conversation recorded to John’s mobile last night had been both illuminating and troubling – a turn of events Mycroft had not foreseen, and that sat very poorly with him – as did the amount of blood and brain matter spilled during the incident. The resources at his disposal to cover up so blatant and brutal a crime were more limited than he cared to divulge. But those days were behind them now, Mycroft would see to that. His brother certainly had flair, but it was obvious now that he was in no condition to govern himself, and certainly not with John Watson egging him on. Mycroft should have seen that from the beginning. Earlier, Sherlock had leaned into Mycroft’s hand, had allowed Mycroft to comfort him, his body warm and needing Mycroft –

Mycroft would see that John was cared for as well. He was a good man, and a gratifying companion. Mycroft took the seat opposite him, lowering himself into what had yesterday been Sherlock’s chair, and what today was merely a chair; a modern monstrosity of chrome and leather. Though he could fault John for many things, he could not fault him his preference for the plain plaid armchair. It suited him.

John met Mycroft’s eye the instant he sat, and there was a flash of something flinty and resolute, but it fled quickly to ashen sadness. Mycroft set his umbrella primly beside him. John had cleaned himself up since last night. He was clean of all blood and bodily matter, and had combed his hair with military precision. He met John’s eye and held it.

“Sherlock is safely in my custody,” Mycroft began. Something in John’s gaze seemed to fold and break as he looked away. 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“After the events of last night I find that I did indeed have to, Dr. Watson.”

“No,’ John said, and swallowed. “You – that – It wasn’t good.” His voice was wasted and harsh in his throat. “It wasn’t good,” he whispered. Something cold hardened in Mycroft and he glared at John over the plate of stale biscuits, forgotten tea, the unread reference text on birds which John clutched in his thin, frail hands.

“I offered a satisfactory alternative and was roundly refused,” Mycroft said, and John flinched. “I trusted you with his safety and well-being, and you failed me on all counts. I had no choice but to take his rehabilitation into my own hands, where he will be properly cared for in a controlled environment.”

John’s gaze had slid to the floor and he shook his head slowly, face tight as though in pain, and the coldness in Mycroft hardened into anger. “I came here today to ask if you had any relevant information that might expedite the case, but I fear I have overestimated you in that matter as well.” He rose suddenly, his stomach unsteady. That was not why he had come at all.

“Please don’t do this,” John said. Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm.

“Good day, Dr. Watson.” 

It was freezing in the flat, Mycroft noted abruptly and without purpose. He left John in his sagging plaid armchair, tea long cold and the pale curtains billowing before him. 

 

  
John sat for several long minutes after Mycroft left. He thought of the way Sherlock had curled on the floor with dead bodies beside him. Brain matter and blood spattered over his shoulders. One arm clutched over his head, the other hand protecting his phone. John thought of the blood drying tacky beneath his nails and the rich, thick odor of it, and the bits of skull, the bits of – he remembered begging shamelessly that Mycroft’s men please stop, please stop, and Sherlock shrieked and cried and then the car was gone and it was quiet and Mrs. Hudson made him tea, navigating the flat as though it were a minefield.

The walk to Whitehall was painful and long. With every step John’s leg was wracked with a searing agony, his shoulders hunched and aching. He remembered Sherlock holding his hand, reeking of piss and laughing weakly. “The _most_ stupid thing,” he’d said. John’s cane rattled with every step.

When he reached Whitehall, he stared up at the building for a long time. The sky was overcast, and a gust of wind caught his coat collar and flapped it up against his chin. He was across the street from Whitehall and he sat down on the pavement. He didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t know. Waiting, he supposed. For Mycroft. For Sherlock. For something.

A lot of people walked by. The sky continued to darken with nightfall and encroaching rain. A pair of trousered legs passed and paused and returned.

“John? John Watson.”

People hurried up and down the street. A bus was roaring past.

“Are you alright?”

John remembered Sherlock hunched over a microscope under bleaching florescent lights. _Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine._

“John, let me buy you a cup of coffee.

_Here. Use mine._

The man before him was middle aged, nondescript. Someone John might have known back when things like that mattered. John pulled his face into something he thought might resemble a smile.

 _How do you feel about the violin?_

“That’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”

_Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._

After a while, the man went away.

 

  
Camille’s office was, as ever, a respite from the commotion just outside. Neat, orderly, well-furnished. Mycroft waited patiently for her to enter, taking in the art on the walls; sea-scapes, schooners, done delicately in oils. He had yet to decipher how exactly Sherlock’s Daniel Merchant played into all of this; quite significantly, if his recording were anything to go by, but incongruent with what Jim had told him of Martin Clarice and the Russians.

Dr. Watson was camped outside the building, he knew from Meredith’s intermittent updates. The wrong side of the building from Mycroft’s office, if that was his intent. If John had simply supported Mycroft’s plan, he and Sherlock could have been happily employed at one of the most physically and financially secure institutions in the world. No more fretting over rent, no more abductions, no more laying their lives on the line and driving the people who loved them to distraction. 

The door to the office opened abruptly and Mycroft found himself caught just slightly off guard as Camille entered. Sound poured through the open door until it closed, and then he and Camille were basked in quiet Her suit was still crisp but the lines about her eyes had deepened and wisps of iron-grey hair had fallen from its customary twist. “Enough. Let him go,” Camille said. Mycroft hesitated.

“I believe that would be unwise,” he said finally. Camille squared her jaw.

“Your beliefs in this matter are of no consequence.”

“He is a dangerous and psychotic criminal-”

“He is _necessary_.”

Mycroft took a moment to realign his patience, fingers clutched in his pocket, where they rested with affected casualness. “I find that exceedingly difficult to believe, even from one so pragmatic as you.”

Camille’s nostrils flared and she leaned forward with unchecked heat in her voice. “I find it it difficult to believe I have tolerated your nonsense for as long as I have. I’m aware of the threat he’s posed to your brother, but I cannot and I will not measure Sherlock’s life in favor of the safety of the city.”

“No one threatens London so dearly as James Moriarty. Surely you realize that.”

“I know what he is.”

“Then you know what he-”

“You will not condescend to tell me what I know! He’s at the center of this mess, and killing him won’t solve it.”

Mycroft allowed his gaze to drift. Killing him indeed would be a waste. At the moment Jim was utterly harmless, his wings clipped. Docile, almost, at least with Mycroft. Of course that would change if he were let back out on the street. Mycroft looked keenly back at Camille.

“You trust him,” he said, and Jim’s words echoed. _A wolf had been prowling around a flock of sheep for a long time-_

“I trust him as far as I need to.”

“He’ll betray you.”

“I know.”

Again, Mycroft studied at her. Perhaps she did know.

“The man you’re protecting-” he paused until Camille acknowledged him with a dip of her chin - “had an ulterior motive in targeting Sherlock. He was involved in trading classified information via Ernest Caplan.” She stiffened. “He was...amenable, perhaps, to the suggestion that we take Sherlock on here. My brother, as you know, has a most remarkable memory.” He watched the realization dawn on her, then her gaze went flinty and opaque. “Give this man to me and I will give you Jim.”

She took a long while to respond. “You’ll have the file within the hour.”

“Then we have a deal.”

Mycroft tilted his head and acquiesced, then turned to leave.

“Mycroft.”

He paused.

“I’ll need a full report.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

 

Per the terms of their game, Mycroft was several days early. He closed the door behind him and Jim rose with a wary eye from where he’d been painting.

Mycroft was holding a plain brown paper bag, the twine handles looped around his first two fingers, and he held this out delicately to James. “You’ll be needing these.”

James accepted with equal caution. He held a handle with either hand and with lowered lashes peered inside. He drew the handles back together and lowered the bag to his side. “Sick of me already?” He was frail and anemic looking, skin papery and thin. There were dark smudges like bruises beneath his eyes.

“Not at all. I can see why Sherlock was so taken with you.”

James seemed to cast about for a smirk that would not come forth, and then lowered his gaze with none of his usual coyness. “Duty calls?”

“It does.”

A heavy silence settled over them. James glanced at Mycroft from the side of his eye, a shiver running through his thin shoulders. He licked his lips and managed the ghost of a salacious grin. “Old Jim on the prowl once more? Lock up your children, lock up your wives.” He let the bag drop to the floor, and his stained, trembling fingers rose to the collar of his shirt. He began to undo the buttons, revealing clear, pale skin and a smattering of dark hair along his sternum. He had a mole beneath his right clavicle. The shirt dropped from his shoulders and Mycroft’s teeth pressed together.

“Yet, you don’t seem too troubled, do you,” James said, and Mycroft’s eyes snapped up to meet his. There was something of a smirk playing about Jim’s lips, and this one was genuine.

“We’re both aware of the larger game afoot, James.”

“Aren’t we.” James hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband of his trousers and drew them down. They were thin at the knees and mottled with all manner of spills and stains on the thighs from blotted sponges, drips of tea, thin streaks of blood from his abused fingertips. He stood stark naked before Mycroft, his skin near translucent in the ambient light, the blue of his veins visible where his skin was the thinnest – wrists and inner thighs, the sensitive skin beneath his arms. He leaned over to retrieve his shirt from the bag, and Mycroft watch light and shadow play across each of his ribs and the knobs of his spine.

“You must be confident that Sherlock is beyond my grasp.” He rose with the shirt and shrugged it on. Tendons danced along the backs of his hands as he buttoned it from the bottom up, reverse of the shirt discarded. Mycroft watched the fragile hollow that formed between his wrist and thumb.

“I am.”

Jim did up the top button, then stood in bare feet, trouserless, as he fastened the cuffs. “Well beyond my influence.”

Mycroft didn’t deign to answer, and Jim retrieved the pair of navy briefs and stepped into them, genitals disappearing behind the soft folds. The trousers followed, shirt tucked slowly in.

“He’s safe, then,” James inquired, head cocked oddly to one side. There was a dangerous and manic glint returning to his eyes. Mycroft was suddenly and alarmingly aware of the pressing enormity of the monochrome murals that surrounded them, rising up on all sides now that James had completed the fourth, a classic depiction of the Last Supper, one single disciple staring brazenly at the viewer while the rest kibitzed around the dinner table. James stepped forward and leaned into Mycroft’s space. His belt was threaded but unbuckled at the waist. “He’s safe from me?” His breath was warm and stale on Mycroft’s lips, and Mycroft fought the urge to lean away.

“But we’re the same, Mycroft,” James crooned softly. “He would never be beyond my influence. Never of his own free will.” He drew back just the slightest distance. “So, whose will does he answer to?”

Mycroft’s blood drained with a sickening chill, and a deranged grin split across James’s face. “A willing, pliant Sherlock; who could possibly resist,” he whispered. He wrapped his cold hands gently on either side of Mycroft’s face. Mycroft was frozen with sick horror as James pressed his dry and tattered lips to his. “Thank you,” he breathed, and kissed him again. “Thank you. It’s better than anything I could have possibly planned. That poor, weak, beating heart.” His voice hitched and he slipped his fingers into Mycroft’s breast pocket and withdrew the small tin of tablets. “I promised, didn’t I? I promised.”

Mycroft’s vision swam. James drew back and slipped past him, but Mycroft didn’t see him go. He heard the door close, and he was alone.

_A wolf had been prowling for some time-_

The flat was dim and silent. James’s discarded clothes remained in a dirty, tattered heap, the paper bag upright and empty beside them.

Mycroft’s gaze rose numbly to the paintings around him. Judas stared back at him, a handsome, angular face he recognized from the file Camille had handed him not an hour earlier: Sebastian Moran. From the very beginning, that’s all any of this had been - _round and round the garden,_ the abduction, the deaths, even the leak to the Russians, the chaos that had forced Camille’s hand. Sebastian Moran would be long gone already

Mycroft stood alone amidst the vast expanse of Jeruselem; Mary crouched at the feet of Christ; disciples chattering over dinner. _All this power will I give thee._ The refrigerator motor ticked on, filling the flat with a tinny, distant hum.

 

Jim decided on a whim to take the stairs. He leaned his full weight into the metal bar, reveling in its give as the door swung open. The stairwell smelled of cement and disinfectant, the pleasant and familiar stench of chlorine. He leaned over the railing and peered down to the ground floor. Only eight levels up! He may as well have been in the clouds, but only eight levels up. How ordinary.

The door on its hydraulic hinge finally slammed shut, echoing throughout the stairwell. Jim’s mouth was dry and his hands unsteady, and he hadn’t noted his room number, but that was silly, as he was never going back there. Something quivered in the pit of his stomach.

He was free! He started down the steps, feet slapping against the cement and he took them sometimes at a bit of a syncopated canter (he was syncopated gaited!) as he descended the stairs, one-two, one-two, one-two.

He reached the ground floor and ratcheted through the door into the back corner of the lobby. He was in the lobby of a block of flats, linoleum floor patterned to look like tile, so ordinary and chintzy and boring, so cheap. He hunched his shoulders into the fabric of the shirt Mycroft had returned to him, so much finer than the scrubs he’d left behind. He’d left them behind with Mycroft.

Two more sets of doors through the foyer and he was on the street, nearly blinded by a sun muted through clouds, and he cringed, raising one arm against it instinctively. A gust of wind blustered against him and he turned his back to it. It was cold out here. Jim strode forward through the crowd. There was a woman yammering into her mobile and Jim snatched the phone from her because women were easier to bully. She swung about with a shriek of indignation and Jim ended her call and dialed Sebastian. He locked eyes with the woman and her protest died immediately.

“I’m at Houndsditch and Goring,” he said. He smiled at the woman and she pulled back a step. He ended the call and held the phone out to her. She hesitated for a long moment, then snatched it back and dashed away.

The buildings were tall here. Not very tall, not the tallest, but looming and grey. A business man collided with Jim from behind and sent him staggering. There was the tremendous noise of cars and blaring horns and people and Jim clenched his fist around his pill box, the pill box Mycroft had given him. Jim pressed along the side of a building with black mirrored windows and it was loud and much colder than when he’d gone. Sebastian was meeting him at the corner. Jim clutched his tin of tablets against his chest, against the cold, leaning into mirrored glass and people staring at him with eyes he would gouge out later. His vision blurred and he saw his bony pale white toes curled against the pavement. He didn’t have any shoes.

 

It was colder every passing day. The sky was grey and heavy with low clouds promising rain. The wind kicked up sporadically and people hurried up and down the steps, in and out of the doors, tugging up their collars, women holding their hair from their faces. John was waiting for – he didn’t know what, exactly. Sometimes people gave him money and he didn’t care enough to refuse it. Sometimes it bought him a hot meal on the long and slow walk home at night.

Birds wheeled through the cold air, taking shelter in the eaves. Mycroft would be working in one of those offices. He was in there, John knew, or thought, or something. If he came out, John didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t know if he could do anything. His body felt so heavy and sad. He watched the traffic and the people, and sometimes the birds flying out and returning to the eaves. A pair of stockinged legs stopped before him. Low heeled, polished leather shoes.

“Dr. Watson.”

A woman’s voice. There was a black car pulled up at the curb. Clean and polished, like the shoes.

“Dr. Watson.” The woman’s voice again. She crouched down to look him in the face and John’s mouth turned up in a small smile, or he thought it did. Anthea’s had been the first face he’d recognized after having been locked in that room for so long, day after day with Sherlock silent on the other end of the line. She’d been the first to say his name and lay a gentle hand upon his back. He wished he could have taken her out. Not for anything – not like that. But just to go out. He would have liked to walk in the park with Anthea just once, and done something silly like feed the ducks. He wondered if she would have liked something like that. She set her hand gently, then firmly against his arm. She tugged as though insisting he move.

“Come on,” she said brusquely, but soft. John refocused on her eyes. They were large and dark and soft looking, the lashes painted. She didn’t have to do that. She was so pretty as it was, she didn’t need to do something like that. John felt sadder now, sad for Anthea who thought she needed to hide her face in order to go outside, who thought she needed a disguise. She didn’t need to do that. She tugged on his arm again and he leaned forward and slowly, slowly followed. His legs were stiff with the cold. He set the foot of his cane wide against the ground and levered himself up, leaning on Anthea as he stood. She wanted him to get in the car. He could do that. He could do that for her. It was the very least and only thing he could do.

 

Mycroft had had a rabbit named Paisley, a big grey thing with floppy ears, and he used to play with it in the yard until their father had died, and then he had given it to Sherlock. Before that, Mycroft would take Paisley out of her hutch and let Sherlock very gently stroke her back and press his cheek against her fur because he liked the feeling of something soft and alive and warm and nice. He remembered pressing his cheek against her fur.

Someone was stroking him now, the back of his head, his cheek, his neck. Mycroft wouldn’t hurt him. Mycroft _loved_ him. He wouldn’t have – he wouldn’t –

“Alright,” John said. John was here. Sherlock felt a small, sad noise escape him. Mycroft had taught him how to catch insects in the garden and how to identify them in the index and he’d given the index to Sherlock and shown him how to write his name on the first page. _He’ll never be satisfied -_ Sherlock had said that. He’d said _He’ll never be satisfied until he has me chained to desk somewhere,_ but it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true. Mycroft told him that birds can’t always see the windows and that’s why there were shattered bits of beak and the dusty imprint of feathers on the glass. John stroked his hair and wiped his thumbs along Sherlock’s cheeks, one after the other. He gathered Sherlock into his arms, and his jumper smelled like wind and the city. Sherlock’s hand crept up and closed around John’s elbow. It was true.

He remembered the stifling dark and the sour leather on his tongue, and the soft hands and being scared and loved and cared for. Mycroft loved him. Mycroft had taught him that raspberry jam or honey was best on toast because it wouldn’t upset his allergy. Mummy’s strawberry jam upset Sherlock’s allergy. Sherlock turned his face against John’s chest. Mycroft had rescued Sherlock when he’d been tied up in the park because he was odd and no one liked him. “I like you, Sherlock,” Mycroft had said, after their father had died. Mycroft had locked John away and then Sherlock had killed Gloria and been very bad. He’d killed three people.

“Come on now,” John said. He stroked Sherlock’s back like a rabbit’s. He leaned away and Sherlock shook. “You’re alright.” He was not. He was not. John eased him away with firm hands on his shoulders and Sherlock jerked back and stared at him wildly. John was _here_ , in the room.

“John,” Sherlock said. John was thin and bony and sunburned and he smiled crookedly at Sherlock. He was wearing his grey cable-knit jumper and his trousers were filthy as though he’d been sitting outdoors, in the street. A huge, shuddering breath ripped through Sherlock and his head was against John’s chest and his bones felt loose and frail. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissed the top of his head. “You’re alright,” he said, and Sherlock’s fingers curled into the edge of his pocket. John had come for him. John was here.

 

  
At the station, Anthea handed John a small, plain envelope. John tucked it into his jacket with one hand and hefted his suitcase with the other. He tried to smile at Anthea but wasn’t sure he quite managed it.

On the train, he shuffled Sherlock into the window seat and sat close beside him and squeezed his knee. Sherlock had the collar of his coat pulled up and he slouched in the seat like a much smaller person than he was, eyes staring blindly out towards the station. John pulled the envelope from his jacket and untucked the flap. It contained a photograph – the faded Kodachrome hues of the 70’s – a man standing shirtless at the seashore, narrow-chested, pale and smiling. He held a cranky child that was clearly Sherlock in one arm; face flushed red and scowling, curls in wild disarray, one chubby wrist pressed to his eye against the sun. His lip curled as he glared at the camera. On the man’s other side leaned a boy of perhaps nine or ten, a smattering of freckles across his scrawny chest, with his mouth open as though mid-word and smiling in an almost inquisitive way. It took John a moment to realize that this was Mycroft. He had clearly just been in the ocean: his hair plastered to his head except where it stuck up on one side. His legs from the knees down were coated in sand. John slid the photograph back into the envelope and returned it to his pocket. Sherlock was watching London slide by as they picked up speed.

“John,” he said suddenly, hoarsely, his voice a thin rasp. John squeezed his knee again in answer and Sherlock swallowed tightly. “Did – when,” he began, and licked his lips. “Did the variables collapse?” John didn’t know how to respond, and Sherlock looked at him from over his coat collar, eyes wide and uncertain. “The impossible,” he prompted.

“Was it eliminated?”

Sherlock nodded once, just a dip of his nose. His forehead creased into a heartbreaking fret and John pulled him close. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said. He hooked his chin over Sherlock’s head and stroked the smooth skin of his cheek. Sherlock’s breath was weak and ragged.

“Mycroft,” he said, and John shushed him. London blew by in rapid, darkening, twilight hues.

“Everything’s going to be fine.”


	11. Epilogue

Four o’clock this time of year, the sun was well set. The streets were lit and in the orange gloaming Mycroft could faintly see that it was snowing; heavy, wet flakes that melted the moment they touched the ground. The heating was on in the office, drying out the air and for a moment Mycroft fought the childish urge to stand outside in the soggy snow. His fingers hovered over the telephone and finally he dialed John’s number.

John and Sherlock had made no effort to hide their whereabouts, but Mycroft knew he had emphatically forfeit the privilege of contact with his brother and in kind had made no attempts at any kind of liaison. John answered on the third ring and Mycroft found himself suddenly at a loss for words.

“Hello?” John repeated. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Dr. Watson.”

There was a momentary silence on the other end and Mycroft’s eyes pinched closed in an involuntary grimace.

“Hey. Um, hi,” John said. There was a muffled shuffling noise and Mycroft knew he was shrugging into a coat with the phone pressed against his shoulder. It was warmer in the South of France, but not warm this time of year.

Mycroft swallowed dryly. “You’ll forgive the intrusion,” he managed.

“Oh, not at all. It’s nothing,” John said, hastily but ever-cordial. “It’s – um, I’m glad you called.” That couldn’t possibly be true, but Mycroft smiled thinly.

“I’m merely…I’d hoped to hear that everything is well.”

“Yes! Yeah, um, yep. Everything’s good. We’ve got a dog. Now. Sherlock’s got a dog. He named it Jefferson. But it’s a girl, so I don’t know why he named it that. How are – I mean, how’s everything with you?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Watson. Thank you.” Mycroft said this softly through the clutching tightness in his throat.

“That’s good.”

Almost immediately after Moriarty’s release, the chaos between the competing criminal circles had lulled and then settled. Sebastian Moran had become the object of an international manhunt, his office cleared and all traces of his existence deleted from even the most secure archives. Neither he nor Mr. Moriarty had been heard from at all, save by way of the relative peace that had been restored to London. Mycroft recalled how frail Jim’s shoulders had been beneath his white shirt, how cold and dry his fingers had been on Mycroft’s face.

“Hey, um,” John said. The line had been quiet for quite some time. “Why don’t – I’ll have Sherlock give you a call. Some time. I mean, not – “

“It’s alright, Dr. Watson.” It was.

“Not soon, I don’t think, but. He knows, you know. That you didn’t.”

Something quivering and weak released in Mycroft’s chest and he felt the hot sting of grief behind his tightly closed eyes. He’d forgotten how acutely devastating that particular feeling could be.

“Thank you,” he said, but he couldn’t be sure John heard.

“Well, I’m going to get going.” John paused. “I’ll be in touch, alright?”

Mycroft nodded and swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“Alright, then,” John said, and ended the call. Mycroft slowly lowered the phone. The percussive tap of a woman’s heeled dissipated down the hall. Mycroft stretched his trembling fingers and looked out the window where the snow had picked up, thick flakes orange in the streetlight. He stood up and slipped into his jacket, then his coat, and left his umbrella behind. It had been a very long time since he had felt the snow against his face. He thought perhaps tonight he might.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who struck with me through this, particularly Lindentreeisle and Thisprettywren, without whom there would be no story! You guys are awesome, and brilliant, and fabulous in every way! Thanks also to Tiltedsyllogism and Ficklepig for their support and (oft unorthodox) encouragement.


End file.
